“My dear John,” she said, gently, “you forget that, while you are at business, I am here all day.  I can’t help seeing the people who come to look at the house.  Such people!” she continued, turning to Mr. Kendrew.  “They distrust every thing, from the scraper at the door to the chimneys on the roof.  They force their way in at all hours.  They ask all sorts of impudent questions—­and they show you plainly that they don’t mean to believe your answers, before you have time to make them.  Some wretch of a woman says, ’Do you think the drains are right?’—­and sniffs suspiciously, before I can say Yes.  Some brute of a man asks, ’Are you quite sure this house is solidly built, ma’am?’—­and jumps on the floor at the full stretch of his legs, without waiting for me to reply.  Nobody believes in our gravel soil and our south aspect.  Nobody wants any of our improvements.  The moment they hear of John’s Artesian well, they look as if they never drank water.  And, if they happen to pass my poultry-yard, they instantly lose all appreciation of the merits of a fresh egg!”

Mr. Kendrew laughed.  “I have been through it all in my time,” he said.  “The people who want to take a house are the born enemies of the people who want to let a house.  Odd—­isn’t it, Vanborough?”

Mr. Vanborough’s sullen humor resisted his friend as obstinately as it had resisted his wife.

“I dare say,” he answered.  “I wasn’t listening.”

This time the tone was almost brutal.  Mrs. Vanborough looked at her husband with unconcealed surprise and distress.

“John!” she said.  “What can be the matter with you?  Are you in pain?”

“A man may be anxious and worried, I suppose, without being actually in pain.”

“I am sorry to hear you are worried.  Is it business?”

“Yes—­business.”

“Consult Mr. Kendrew.”

“I am waiting to consult him.”

Mrs. Vanborough rose immediately.  “Ring, dear,” she said, “when you want coffee.”  As she passed her husband she stopped and laid her hand tenderly on his forehead.  “I wish I could smooth out that frown!” she whispered.  Mr. Vanborough impatiently shook his head.  Mrs. Vanborough sighed as she turned to the door.  Her husband called to her before she could leave the room.

“Mind we are not interrupted!”

“I will do my best, John.”  She looked at Mr. Kendrew, holding the door open for her; and resumed, with an effort, her former lightness of tone.  “But don’t forget our ‘born enemies!’ Somebody may come, even at this hour of the evening, who wants to see the house.”

The two gentlemen were left alone over their wine.  There was a strong personal contrast between them.  Mr. Vanborough was tall and dark—­a dashing, handsome man; with an energy in his face which all the world saw; with an inbred falseness under it which only a special observer could detect.  Mr. Kendrew was short and light—­slow and awkward in manner, except when something happened to rouse him.  Looking in his face, the world saw an ugly and undemonstrative little man.  The special observer, penetrating under the surface, found a fine nature beneath, resting on a steady foundation of honor and truth.