Mr. Netlips drew himself up with an air of offended dignity.

“You forestall me wrong, Thomas Bainton,”—­he said—­“And I prefer not to amplify the conference.  A sentiment is no part of a political propinquity.”

With that, he retired into the recesses of his ‘general store,’ leaving Bainton chuckling to himself, with a broad grin on his weatherbeaten countenance.

The ‘Petol’ board displayed on the front of Mr. Netlips’ shop, however, was just one of those slight indications which showed the vague change that had crept over the erstwhile tranquil atmosphere of St. Rest.  Among other signs and tokens of internal disquiet was the increasing pomposity of the village post-mistress, Mrs. Tapple.  Mrs. Tapple had grown so accustomed to various titles and prefixes of rank among the different guests who came in turn to stay at the Manor, that whereas she had at one time stood in respectful awe of old Pippitt because he was a ‘Sir,’ she now regarded him almost with contempt.  What was a ‘Sir’ to a ‘Lord’?  Nothing!—­less than nothing!  For during one week she had sold stamps to a real live Marquis and post-cards to a ‘Right Honourable,’ besides despatching numerous telegrams for the Countess of Beaulyon.  By all the gods and little fishes, Sir Morton Pippitt had sunk low indeed!—­for when Mrs. Tapple, bridling with scorn, said she ’wondered ’ow a man like ’im wot only made his money in bone-boilin’ would dare to be seen with Miss Vancourt’s real quality’ it was felt that she was expressing an almost national sentiment.

Taking everything into consideration, it was not to be denied that the new element infused into the little village community had brought with it a certain stir and excitement, but also a sense of discontent.  And John Walden, keenly alive to every touch of feeling, was more conscious of the change than many another man would have been who was not endowed with so quick and responsive a nature.  He noted the quaint self-importance of Mrs. Tapple with a kindly amusement, not altogether unmixed with pain,—­he watched regretfully the attempts made by the young girls of his little parish to trick themselves out with cheap finery imported from the town of Riversford, in order to imitate in some fashion, no matter how far distant, the attire of Lady Beaulyon, whose dresses were a wonder, and whose creditors were legion,—­and he was sincerely sorry to see that even gentle and pretty Susie Prescott had taken to a new mode of doing her hair, which, though elaborate, did not suit her at all, and gave an almost bold look to an otherwise sweet and maidenly countenance.

“But I am old,—­and old-fashioned too!”—­he said to himself, resignedly—­“The world must move on—­and as it moves it is bound to leave old times behind it—­and me with them.  I must not complain—­ nor should I, even in my own heart, find too many reproaches for the ways of the young.”

And involuntarily he recalled Tennyson’s lines:—­