In a certain dark street not very far from the lecture-room Mr. Cullen rose on tip-toe at the windows of a dull little public-house.  A Unionist was standing at the bar; Mr. Cullen hurried on, into a street yet darker.  Again he tip-toed at a window.  The glimpse reassured him; he passed quickly through the doorway, stepped to the bar, gave an order.  Then he turned, and behold, on a seat just under the window sat Mr. Cowes, & short pipe in his mouth, a smoking tumbler held on his knee.  The supporters of total abstinence nodded to each other, with a slight lack of spontaneity.  Mr. Cullen, having secured his own tumbler, came by his comrade’s side.

‘Deal o’ fine talk to wind up with,’ he remarked tentatively.

‘He means what he says,’ returned the other gravely.

‘Oh yes,’ Mr. Cullen hastened to admit.  ’Mutimer means what he says!  Only the way of saying it, I meant—­I’ve got a bit of a sore throat.’

‘So have I. After that there hot room.’

They nodded at each other sympathetically.  Mr. Cullen filled a little black pipe.

‘Got alight?’

Mr. Cowes offered the glowing bowl of his own clay; they put their noses together and blew a cloud.

’Of course there’s no saying what time ‘ll do,’ observed tall Mr. Cowes, sententiously, after a gulp of warm liquor.

‘No more there is,’ assented short Mr. Cullen with half a wink.

‘It’s easy to promise.’

‘As easy as tellin’ lies.’

Another silence.

’Don’t suppose you and me ‘ll get much of it,’ Mr. Cowes ventured to observe.

‘About as much as you can put in your eye without winkin’,’ was the other’s picturesque agreement.

They talked till closing time.

CHAPTER VII

One morning late in June, Hubert Eldon passed through the gates of Wanley Manor and walked towards the village.  It was the first time since his illness that he had left the grounds on foot.  He was very thin, and had an absent, troubled look; the natural cheerfulness of youth’s convalescence seemed altogether lacking in him.

From a rising point of the road, winding between the Manor and Wanley, a good view of the valley offered itself; here Hubert paused, leaning a little on his stick, and let his eyes dwell upon the prospect.  A year ago he had stood here and enjoyed the sweep of meadows between Stanbury Hill and the wooded slope opposite, the orchard-patches, the flocks along the margin of the little river.  To-day he viewed a very different scene.  Building of various kinds was in progress in the heart of the vale; a great massive chimney was rising to completion, and about it stood a number of sheds.  Beyond was to be seen the commencement of a street of small houses, promising infinite ugliness in a little space; the soil over a considerable area was torn up and trodden into mud.  A number of men were at work; carts and waggons and trucks were moving about.  In truth, the benighted valley was waking up and donning the true nineteenth-century livery.