‘That’ll be all right,’ she said.  ‘Well, well!’

‘Aye!’

And he stepped round to Ned Walklate’s.

FROM ONE GENERATION TO ANOTHER

I

It is the greatest mistake in the world to imagine that, because the Five Towns is an industrial district, devoted to the manufacture of cups and saucers, marbles and door-knobs, therefore there is no luxury in it.

A writer, not yet deceased, who spent two nights there, and wrote four hundred pages about it, has committed herself to the assertion that there are no private carriages in its streets—­ only perambulators and tramcars.

That writer’s reputation is ruined in the Five Towns.  For the Five Towns, although continually complaining of bad times, is immensely wealthy, as well as immensely poor—­a country of contrasts, indeed—­and private carriages, if they do not abound, exist at any rate in sufficient numbers.

Nay, more, automobiles of the most expensive French and English makes fly dashingly along its hilly roads and scatter in profusion the rich black mud thereof.

On a Saturday afternoon in last spring, such an automobile stood outside the garden entrance of Bleakridge House, just halfway between Hanbridge and Bursley.  It belonged to young Harold Etches, of Etches, Limited, the great porcelain manufacturers.

It was a 20 h.p.  Panhard, and was worth over a thousand pounds as it stood there, throbbing, and Harold was proud of it.

He was also proud of his young wife, Maud, who, clad in several hundred pounds’ worth of furs, had taken her seat next to the steering-wheel, and was waiting for Harold to mount by her side.  The united ages of this handsome and gay couple came to less than forty-five.

And they owned the motor-car, and Bleakridge House with its ten bedrooms, and another house at Llandudno, and a controlling interest in Etches, Limited, that brought them in seven or eight thousand a year.  They were a pretty tidy example of what the Five Towns can do when it tries to be wealthy.

At that moment, when Harold was climbing into the car, a shabby old man who was walking down the road, followed by a boy carrying a carpet-bag, stopped suddenly and touched Harold on the shoulder.

‘Bless us!’ exclaimed the old man.  And the boy and the carpet-bag halted behind him.

‘What?  Uncle Dan?’ said Harold.

‘Uncle Dan!’ cried Maud, springing up with an enchanting smile.  ‘Why, it’s ages since—­’

‘And what d’ye reckon ye’n gotten here?’ demanded the old man.

‘It’s my new car,’ Harold explained.

‘And ca’st drive it, lad?’ asked the old man.

‘I should think I could!’ said Harold confidently.

‘H’m!’ commented the old man, and then he shook hands, and thoroughly scrutinized Maud.