before entering on his solemn career as a country gentleman.  Old Tyson had cut himself adrift from his own origins.  And as the years went on he wrapped himself closer in his impenetrable garment of respectability; he was only Mr. Tyson, the gentle cultivator of orchids, until, gradually receding from view, he became a presence, a myth, a name.  But when the amazing Mr. Nevill Tyson dashed into his uncle’s place, he drew all eyes on him by the very unexpectedness of his advent.  And now it seemed that Tyson, the cosmopolitan adventurer, the magnificent social bandit who trampled, so to speak, on the orchids of respectability, and rode rough-shod over the sleek traditions of Thorneytoft, was after all nothing better than a little City tailor’s son.

Of course it didn’t matter in the very least.  A man’s a man for all that; but when the man, in his brilliant oratorical way, has intimated that you don’t ride straight, and that you funk your fences, you may be forgiven if you smile a sly private smile at his expense.

And Sir Peter did more than smile, he laughed.

“So that was the goose that laid the golden eggs?” (Ha, ha!  Sir Peter had made a joke.)

He went home merrily at the end of the week in his new clothes with his new idea; and as he sat in the train he kept turning that little bit of gossip over and over, and tasting it.  It lasted him all the way from St. Pancras to Drayton Parva.  Sir Peter did not greatly care for women’s gossip; but he liked his own.  And really the provocation had been intense.  It was tit for tat, quid pro quo, what was sauce for the goose—­the goose again!  Ha! ha! ha!  It was a good thing for Sir Peter that Vance had given him another two inches round the waist.

Now, to do Sir Peter justice, he had meant to keep that little bit of gossip entirely to himself, for solitary gloating over and nibbling.  But when an old gentleman has spent all his life uttering melancholy platitudes, and is suddenly delivered of a joke—­of two jokes—­it is a little hard to expect him to hide his light under a bushel.  He could have buried scandal in his breast forever, but to put an extinguisher on the sparks of his playful fancy—­no, these things are beyond a man’s control.  And as the idea of the goose, with all its subtle humor, sank deeper and deeper into Sir Peter’s mind, he was irresistibly tempted to impart it to Lady Morley (in strict confidence).  Such a joke as that ought not to be kept to himself to live and die with him; it would hardly be kind to Lady Morley.  She would appreciate it.

She did appreciate it.  So did Miss Batchelor, to whom she also told the story (in strict confidence).  So did everybody whom Miss Batchelor may or may not have confided in.  And when the thing became public property, Sir Peter wished he had restrained his sense of humor.

CHAPTER VIII

TOWARDS “THE CROSS-ROADS”