“Even at Stockholm,” she replied, with a smile, “there is summer, you know.”

“And in Russia, too, I have heard,” laughed Mr. Liversedge.  “But one doesn’t put much faith in such reports.  Denzil tries to persuade us now and then that the North Cape has quite a balmy atmosphere, especially from December to March.  He is quite safe.  We sha’n’t go to test his statements.”

Instead of a time of misery, this first half-hour proved so pleasant that Lilian all but forgot the shadow standing behind her.  When tea was brought in, she felt none of the nervousness which had seemed to her inevitable amid such luxurious appliances.  These relatives of Denzil’s, henceforth her own, were people such as she had not dared to picture them—­so unaffected, genial, easy to talk with; nor did she suffer from a necessity of uttering direct falsehoods; conversation dealt with the present and the future—­partly, no doubt, owing to Quarrier’s initiative.  Mr. Liversedge made a report of local affairs as they concerned the political outlook; he saw every reason for hope.

“Welwyn-Baker,” he said, “is quite set up again, and I am told he has no inclination to retire in favour of his son, or any one else.  An obstinate old fellow—­and may his obstinacy increase!  The Tories are beginning to see that they ought to set up a new man; they are quarrelling among themselves.  That bazaar at the opening of the new Society’s rooms—­the Constitutional Literary, you know—­ seems to have been a failure.  No one was satisfied.  The Mercury printed savage letters from a lot of people—­blaming this, that, and the other person in authority.  The Examiner, chuckled, and hasn’t done referring to the matter yet.”

Apart with Lilian, Mrs. Liversedge had begun to talk of the society of Polterham.  She did not try to be witty at the expense of her neighbours, but confessed with a sly smile that literature and the arts were not quite so well appreciated as might be wished.

“You are a serious student, I know—­very learned in languages.  I wish I had had more time for reading, and a better head.  But seven children, you know—­oh dear!  Even my little bit of French has got so ragged that I am really ashamed of it.  But there is one woman who studies.  Has Denzil spoken to you of Mrs. Wade?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She is no great favourite of his, I believe.  You will soon hear of her, and no doubt see her.  Denzil admits that she is very clever—­ even a Creek scholar!”

“Really!  And what fault does he find with her?”

“She is a great supporter of woman’s rights, and occasionally makes speeches.  It’s only of late that I have seen much of her; for some reason she seems to have taken a liking to me, and I feel rather honoured.  I’m sure her intentions are very good indeed, and it must be trying to live among people who have no sympathy with you.  They make sad fun of her, and altogether misunderstand her—­at least I think so.”