When, however, the hour of dinner at the Manor arrived and he had not yet returned, she felt that vague anxiety which is almost more difficult to hide in the presence of others than the pain of some definite calamity. She knew quite well that if he had only missed a train, he would have telegraphed. But no one looking at her would have suspected that her mind was disturbed by the least unhappy thought. Miss Hadleigh only said: ‘That careless boy! To be late on such an occasion as this when he knows that papa is always put out when anybody is late’—and went on doing her best to remember her duty as a hostess by not giving all her attention to ‘Alfred.’ Miss Caroline only whispered in reply: ‘He is so stupid.’ As for Miss Bertha, she was so busily engaged in conversation with one of her brother Coutts’s friends, that she was unconscious of any disarrangement of the evening’s programme. So the party in the drawing-room buzzed like a hive of contented bees on a warm summer day, and no one showed the slightest symptom of being aware that the hour appointed for dinner had passed. The vicar, Paul Havens, was a hale, sunny-faced man of about fifty years, with bushy iron-gray hair and whiskers, and square muscular frame. He was one of those men whose strong, kindly nature reflects itself upon all who come in contact with him, and inspires them too with a sense of strength. His genial presence was like fresh air in the mansion or the peasant’s cot. He was no ‘sporting parson;’ but he chatted with Crawshay with as much interest as if he were, about the prospects of sport on the stubble this season, and how the pheasants were likely to turn out when their time came. Then, as Dr Guy came up, the vicar turned to little Mrs Joy in time to relieve her from utter distraction at the cynical jokes and compliments of Coutts Hadleigh. The latter delighted in bewildering this good lady, whose wits were not particularly quick, although, with her husband, Dr Edwin Joy, she was an enthusiastic social reformer. ‘My husband and I believe,’ she would say, with her little head bending slightly to one side, ‘that want of thrift is at the bottom of all the poverty and misery of the working-classes in town and country. Now we endeavour to inculcate that great fact on all who come under our influence; and Dr Joy, as my father’s partner, you know, has many opportunities for speaking a word in season. And we always speak it! Thrift, thrift, thrift, is our text; and I assure you we have succeeded in making _some_ improvements in our district.’