“You couldn’t disguise it if you tried, Uncle Ernest.  You’re thankful—­naturally.  You don’t want youth in this dignified abode of wisdom.  Besides, you’ve got no place for a horse—­you know you haven’t.”

“I’ve no objection to youth, my dear boy, but I can’t pretend that the manners and customs of youth are agreeable to me.  Tobacco, for example, causes me the most acute uneasiness.  Then the robustness and general exaggeration of the youthful mind and body!  It rises beyond fatigue, above the middle-aged desire for calm and comfort.  It kicks up its heels for sheer joy of living; it is ever in extremes; it lacks imagination, with the result that it is ruthless.  All these characteristics may go with a delightful personality—­as in your case, Raymond—­but let youth cleave to youth.  Youth understands youth.  You will in fact be much happier with Waldron.”

“And you will be happier without me.”

“It may be selfish to say so, but I certainly shall.”

“Well, you’ve had the virtue of making the self-denial and I think it was awfully good of you to do so.”

“I am always here and always very happy and willing to befriend the grandson of my father’s partner,” declared Mr. Churchouse.  “It is excellent news that you are going into the business.”

“Remains to be seen.”

The dining room at ‘The Magnolias’ was also the master’s study.  There were innocent little affectations in it and the room was arranged to create an atmosphere of philosophy and art.  Books thronged in lofty book-shelves with glass doors.  These were surmounted by plaster busts of Homer and Minerva, toned to mellowness by time.  In the window was the writing desk of Mr. Churchouse, upon which stood a photograph of Goethe.

Tea was laid and a girl brought in the hot water when Mr. Churchouse rang for it.  After she had gone Raymond praised her enthusiastically.

“By Jove, what a pretty housemaid!” he exclaimed.

“Pretty, yes; a housemaid, no,” explained Mr. Churchouse.  “She is the daughter of my housekeeper, Mrs. Dinnett.  Mrs. Dinnett has been called to Chilcombe, to see her old mother who is, I fear, going to die, and so Sabina, with her usual kindness, has spent her half-holiday at home to look after me.  Sabina lives here.  She is Mrs. Dinnett’s daughter and one of the spinners at the mill.  In fact, Mr. Best tells me she is his most accomplished spinner and has genius for the work.  In her leisure she does braiding at home, as many of the girls do.”

“She’s jolly handsome,” declared Raymond.  “She’s chucked away in a place like this.”

“D’you mean ’The Magnolias’?” asked the elder mildly.

“No, not ‘The Magnolias’ particularly, but Bridetown in general.”

“And why should Bridetown be denied the privilege of numbering a beautiful girl amongst its population?”

“Oh—­why—­she’s lost, don’t you see.  Working in a stuffy mill, she’s lost.  If she was on the stage, then thousands would see her.  A beautiful thing oughtn’t to be hidden away.”