Long ago he had silenced every conscientious scruple regarding the relation between Lilian and himself; and as for the man Northway, if ever he thought of him at all, it was with impatient contempt.  That he was deceiving his Polterham acquaintances, and in a way which they would deem an unpardonable outrage, no longer caused him the least compunction.  Conventional wrong doing, he had satisfied himself, was not wrong-doing at all, unless discovered.  He injured no one.  The society of such a person as Lilian could be nothing but an advantage to man, woman, and child.  Only the sublimation of imbecile prejudice would maintain that she was an unfit companion for the purest creature living.  He had even ceased to smile at the success of his stratagem.  It was over and done with; their social standing was unassailable.

Anxious to complete his book on the Vikings, he worked at it for several hours each morning; it would be off his hands some time in February, and the spring publishing season should send it forth to the world.  The rest of his leisure was given to politics.  Chests of volumes were arriving from London, and his library shelves began to make a respectable appearance; as a matter of principle, he bought largely from the local bookseller, who rejoiced at the sudden fillip to his stagnant trade, and went about declaring that Mr. Denzil Quarrier was evidently the man for the borough.

He fell upon history, economics, social speculation, with characteristic vigour.  If he got into the House of Commons, those worthies should speedily be aware of his existence among them.  It was one of his favourite boasts that whatever subject he choose to tackle, he could master.  No smattering for him; a solid foundation of knowledge, such as would ensure authority to his lightest utterances.

In the meantime, he began to perceive that Lilian was not likely to form many acquaintances in the town.  With the Liversedges she stood on excellent terms, and one or two families closely connected with them gave her a welcome from which she did not shrink.  But she had no gift of social versatility; it cost her painful efforts to converse about bazaars and curates and fashions and babies with the average Polterham matron; she felt that most of the women who came to see her went away with distasteful impressions, and that they were anything but cordial when she returned their call.  A life of solitude and study was the worst possible preparation for duties such as were now laid upon her.

“You are dissatisfied with me,” she said to Denzil, as they returned from spending the evening with some empty but influential people who had made her exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Dissatisfied?  On the contrary, I am very proud of you.  It does one good to contrast one’s wife with women such as those.”

“I tried to talk; but I’m so ignorant of everything they care about.  I shall do better when I know more of the people they refer to.”