Miss Denham’s opening notes on the despised piano put a curb on the doctor.  She began a Mass of Mozart’s, without the usual preliminary rattle of the keys, as of a crier announcing a performance, straight to her task, for which Rosamund thanked her, liking that kind of composed simplicity:  she thanked her more for cutting short the doctor’s fanatical nonsense.  It was perceptible to her that a species of mad metaphor had been wriggling and tearing its passage through a thorn-bush in his discourse, with the furious urgency of a sheep in a panic; but where the ostensible subject ended and the metaphor commenced, and which was which at the conclusion, she found it difficult to discern—­much as the sheep would, be when he had left his fleece behind him.  She could now have said, ‘Silly old man!’

Dr. Shrapnel appeared most placable.  He was gazing at his Authority in the heavens, tangled among gold clouds and purple; his head bent acutely on one side, and his eyes upturned in dim speculation.  His great feet planted on their heels faced him, suggesting the stocks; his arms hung loose.  Full many a hero of the alehouse, anciently amenable to leg-and-foot imprisonment in the grip of the parish, has presented as respectable an air.  His forelock straggled as it willed.

Rosamund rose abruptly as soon as the terminating notes of the Mass had been struck.

Dr. Shrapnel seemed to be concluding his devotions before he followed her example.

‘There, ma’am, you have a telegraphic system for the soul,’ he said.  ‘It is harder work to travel from this place to this’ (he pointed at ear and breast) ‘than from here to yonder’ (a similar indication traversed the distance between earth and sun).  ’Man’s aim has hitherto been to keep men from having a soul for this world:  he takes it for something infernal.  He?—­I mean, they that hold power.  They shudder to think the conservatism of the earth will be shaken by a change; they dread they won’t get men with souls to fetch and carry, dig, root, mine, for them.  Right!—­what then?  Digging and mining will be done; so will harping and singing.  But then we have a natural optimacy!  Then, on the one hand, we whip the man-beast and the man-sloth; on the other, we seize that old fatted iniquity—­that tyrant! that tempter! that legitimated swindler cursed of Christ! that palpable Satan whose name is Capital! by the neck, and have him disgorging within three gasps of his life.  He is the villain!  Let him live, for he too comes of blood and bone.  He shall not grind the faces of the poor and helpless—­that’s all.’

The comicality of her having such remarks addressed to her provoked a smile on Rosamund’s lips.

‘Don’t go at him like Samson blind,’ said Mr. Lydiard; and Miss Denham, who had returned, begged her guardian to entreat the guest to stay.

She said in an undertone, ’I am very anxious you should see Captain Beauchamp, madam.’