“I read the languages—­the modern.  They have a very interesting literature of to-day; the old battle-stories don’t appeal to me quite so much as they do to Denzil.”

“You ought to know this fellow Jacobsen,” said Quarrier, taking up the novel. “‘Marie Grubbe’ doesn’t sound a very aesthetic title, but the book is quite in your line—­a wonderfully delicate bit of work.”

“Don’t imagine, Mrs. Quarrier,” pleaded Glazzard, “that I am what is called an aesthete.  The thing is an abomination to me.”

“Oh, you go tolerably far in that direction!” cried Denzil, laughing.  “True, you don’t let your hair grow, and in general make an ass of yourself; but there’s a good deal of preciosity about you, you know.”

Seeing that Mr. Glazzard’s crown showed an incipient baldness, the allusion to his hair was perhaps unfortunate.  Lilian fancied that her guest betrayed a slight annoyance; she at once interposed with a remark that led away from such dangerous ground.  It seemed to her (she had already received the impression from Quarrier’s talk of the evening before) that Denzil behaved to his friend with an air of bantering superiority which it was not easy to account for.  Mr. Glazzard, so far as she could yet judge, was by no means the kind of man to be dealt with in this tone; she thought him rather disposed to pride than to an excess of humility, and saw in his face an occasional melancholy which inspired her with interest and respect.

A female servant (the vacancy made by Lilian’s self-denying kindness had been hastily supplied) appeared with summons to dinner.  Mr. Glazzard offered an arm to his hostess, and Quarrier followed with a look of smiling pleasure.

Hospitality had been duly cared for.  Not at all inclined to the simple fare which Denzil chose to believe would suffice for him, Glazzard found more satisfaction in the meal than he had anticipated.  If Mrs. Quarrier were responsible for the menu (he doubted it), she revealed yet another virtue.  The mysterious circumstances of this household puzzled him more and more; occasionally he forgot to speak, or to listen, in the intensity of his preoccupation; and at such moments his countenance darkened.

On the whole, however, he seemed in better spirits than of wont.  Quarrier was in the habit of seeing him perhaps once a month, and it was long since he had heard the connoisseur discourse so freely, so unconcernedly.  As soon as they were seated at table, Denzil began to talk of politics.

“If my brother-in-law really stands for Polterham,” he exclaimed, “we must set you canvassing among the mill-hands, Glazzard!”

“H’m!—­not impossible.”

“As much as to say,” remarked the other to Lilian, “that he would see them all consumed in furnaces before he stretched forth a hand to save them.”

“I know very well how to understand Denzil’s exaggerations,” said Lilian, with a smile to her guest.