The silence was dreadful. Nancy endeavoured to rise, but her limbs would not do their office. Then, her eyes fixed on the grass, she became aware that Tarrant himself had stood up. ‘Where are the children?’ he was saying absently. He descried them afar off with Miss. Morgan, and began to saunter in that direction. As soon as his back was turned, Nancy rose and began to walk towards the house. In a few moments Jessica and the girls were with her. ‘I think we must go,’ she said. They entered, and took leave of Mrs. Baker, who sat alone in the drawing-room. ‘Did you say good-bye to Mr. Tarrant?’ Jessica asked, as they came forth again. ‘Yes.’ ‘I didn’t. But I suppose it doesn’t matter.’ Nancy had thought of telling her friend what she had done, of boasting that she had asked the impossible question. But now she felt ashamed of herself, and something more than ashamed. Never again could she enter this garden. And it seemed to her that, by a piece of outrageous, of wanton, folly, she had for ever excluded herself from the society of all ‘superior’ people. CHAPTER 7 ‘Now, _I_ look at it in this way. It’s to celebrate the fiftieth year of the reign of Queen Victoria--yes: but at the same time, and far more, it’s to celebrate the completion of fifty years of Progress. National Progress, without precedent in the history of mankind! One may say, indeed, Progress of the Human Race. Only think what has been done in this half-century: only think of it! Compare England now, compare the world, with what it was in 1837. It takes away one’s breath!’ Thus Mr. Samuel Bennett Barmby, as he stood swaying forward upon his toes, his boots creaking. Nancy and Jessica listened to him. They were ready to start on the evening’s expedition, but Horace had not yet come home, and on the chance of his arrival they would wait a few minutes longer. ‘I shall make this the subject of a paper for our Society next winter--the Age of Progress. And with special reference to one particular--the Press. Only think now, of the difference between our newspapers, all our periodicals of to-day, and those fifty years ago. Did you ever really consider, Miss. Morgan, what a marvellous thing one of our great newspapers really is? Printed in another way it would make a volume--absolutely; a positive volume; packed with thought and information. And all for the ridiculous price of one penny!’ He laughed; a high, chuckling, crowing laugh; the laugh of triumphant optimism. Of the man’s sincerity there could be no question; it beamed from his shining forehead, his pointed nose; glistened in his prominent eyes. He had a tall, lank figure, irreproachably clad in a suit of grey: frock coat, and waistcoat revealing an expanse of white shirt. His cuffs were magnificent, and the hands worthy of them. A stand-up collar, of remarkable stiffness, kept his head at the proper level of self-respect.