But the property was good, the borough safe, and any time these twenty years their owner might have franked his letters “Chippinge” had he willed it. As it was, he passed, almost as much as Mr. Western in the east or Sir Thomas Acland in the west, for the type of a country gentleman. The most powerful Minister gave him his whole hand; and at county meetings, at Salisbury or Devizes, no voice was held more powerful, nor any man’s hint more quickly taken than Sir Robert Vermuyden’s. He was a tall and very thin man, of almost noble aspect, with a nose after the fashion of the Duke’s, and a slight stoop. In early days he had been something of a beau, though never of the Prince’s following, and he still dressed finely and with taste. With a smaller sense of personal dignity, or with wider sympathies, he might have been a happier man. But he had married too late—at forty-five; and the four years which followed, and their sequel, had darkened the rest of his life, drawn crow’s-feet about his eyes and peevish lines about his mouth. Henceforth he had lived alone, nursing his pride; and the solitude of this life—which was not without its dignity, since no word of scandal touched it—had left him narrow and vindictive, a man just but not over-generous, and pompous without complacency. The neighbourhood knew that he and Lady Sybil—he had married the beautiful daughter of the last Earl of Portrush—had parted under circumstances which came near to justifying divorce. Some held that he had divorced her; but in those days an Act of Parliament was necessary, and no such Act stood on the Statute-book. Many thought that he ought to have divorced her. And while the people who knew that she still lived and still plagued him were numerous, few save Isaac White were aware that it was because his marriage had been made and marred at Bowood—and not purely out of principle—that Sir Robert opposed the very name of Lansdowne, and would have wasted a half of his fortune to wreck his great neighbour’s political power.