Jane spared him the trouble of finding a topic that would be likely to interest her by being the first to speak. “Do you find Duxley much changed since you were here last?” She asked. “Very little changed indeed. These small country towns never do change, or only by such imperceptible degrees that one never notices the difference. But may I ask, Miss Culpepper, how you know that I am not a stranger to Duxley?” “Oh, I have often heard papa speak of you, and wonder what had become of you.” “And heard him blame me, I doubt not, for running away from the friends of my youth, and the town of my birth.” “I cannot say that you are altogether wrong,” answered Jane with a smile. “Papa is a little impulsive at times, as I dare say you know, and judges every one from his own peculiar standpoint.” “Which means, in my case, I suppose, that because I was born in Duxley, I ought to have earned my bread there, died there, and been buried there.” “Something of the kind, doubtless. Old-fashioned prejudices you would call them, Mr. Bristow.” “I dare say I should. But they are worthy of respect for all that.” “Is not that somewhat of a paradox?” “Hardly so, I think. Men like Mr. Culpepper, with their conservatism, and their traditions of a past—which, it should not be forgotten, was not a past, but a present, when they were young people, and is, consequently, not so very antiquated—with their faith in old institutions, old modes of thought, old friendships, and—and old wine, are simply invaluable in this shifty, restless, out-of-breath era in which we live. They are like the roots of grass and tangle which bind together the sandhills on a windy shore. They conserve for us the essence of an experience which dates from years before we were born; which will sweeten our lives, if we know how to use it: as yonder pot-pourri of faded rose-leaves sweetens this room, and whispers to us that, in summers long ago, flowers as sweet bloomed and faded, as those which blossom for us to-day and will fade and leave us to-morrow.” “When you are as old as papa, Mr. Bristow,” said Jane, with a laugh, “I believe you will be just as conservative and full of prejudices as he is.” “I hope so, I’m sure,” said Tom, earnestly. “Only, my prejudices will differ in some degree from his—as his would doubtless differ in degree from those of his father—because I happen to have been born some thirty years later in the world’s history.” At this moment the servant ushered in Mr. Cope the banker, and Mr. Edward Cope the banker’s son. Jane rose, and introduced Tom to them as “Mr. Bristow, a friend of papa’s.” The banker’s son stared at Tom for a moment, nodded his bull head, and then drawing a chair up to the piano, proceeded to take possession of Jane with an air of proprietorship which brought the colour for a moment into that young lady’s face.