The contemplation of the curious littleness of the lives of men and women lived in this England of ours, made me feel as if I looked at them out of a palace balcony-window; for no one appeared to hope very much or to fear; people trotted in their different kinds of harness; and I was amused to think of my heart going regularly in imitation of those about me.  I was in a princely state of mind indeed, not disinclined for a time to follow the general course of life, while despising it.  An existence without colour, without anxious throbbing, without salient matter for thought, challenged contempt.  But it was exceedingly funny.  My aunt Dorothy, the squire, and Janet submitted to my transparent inward laughter at them, patiently waiting for me to share their contentment, in the deluded belief that the hour would come.  The principal items of news embraced the death of Squire Gregory Bulsted, the marriage of this and that young lady, a legal contention between my grandfather and Lady Maria Higginson, the wife of a rich manufacturer newly located among us, on account of a right of encampment on Durstan heath, my grandfather taking side with the gipsies, and beating her ladyship—­a friend of Heriot’s, by the way.  Concerning Heriot, my aunt Dorothy was in trouble.  She could not, she said, approve his behaviour in coming to this neighbourhood at all, and she hinted that I might induce him to keep away.  I mentioned Julia Bulsted’s being in mourning, merely to bring in her name tentatively.

‘Ay, mourning’s her outer rig, never doubt,’ said the squire.  ’Flick your whip at her, she ’s a charitable soul, Judy Bulsted!  She knits stockings for the poor.  She’d down and kiss the stump of a sailor on a stick o’ timber.  All the same, she oughtn’t to be alone.  Pity she hasn’t a baby.  You and I’ll talk it over by-and-by, Harry.’

Kiomi was spoken of, and Lady Maria Higginson, and then Heriot.

‘M-m-m-m rascal!’ hummed the squire.  ’There’s three, and that’s not enough for him.  Six months back a man comes over from Surreywards, a farm he calls Dipwell, and asks after you, Harry; rigmaroles about a handsome lass gone off . . . some scoundrel !  You and I’ll talk it over by-and-by, Harry.’

Janet raised and let fall her eyebrows.  The fiction, that so much having been said, an immediate show of reserve on such topics preserved her in ignorance of them, was one she subscribed to merely to humour the squire.  I was half in doubt whether I disliked or admired her want of decent hypocrisy.  She allowed him to suppose that she did not hear, but spoke as a party to the conversation.  My aunt Dorothy blamed Julia.  The squire thundered at Heriot; Janet, liking both, contented herself with impartial comments.