“Oh, dear no, not at all. I went there quite as an excursionist. It was rather quaint going round as a tripper. The remarks of the people I was with were most amusing.” The suspicion of a shadow crossed her face. She was not pleased to think of the mob tramping through those ancestral halls for which she had an almost Chinese reverence. I detected her disapproval, and hastened to add: “They were in no way irreverent; far from it, I think they were most impressed.” “I suppose,” she said, “it is good for that sort of people to be put in mind of those who have been chiefly responsible for making England what she is.” I had considerable trouble to forbear smiling as I recalled the career of some of the Gascoynes. “That sort of people had something to do with the making of England. It was not the aristocracy who used the bow and arrow at Crecy.” We both turned with some surprise to young Gascoyne. It was a deeper remark than he usually gave vent to. “The people are nothing without their natural leaders,” Miss Gascoyne replied. “You think the aristocracy are the natural leaders of the people?” “Surely.” “It seems to me,” I answered, for I saw that it did not flatter her to agree too readily, “that the people got very little done for them till they chose leaders of their own.” “Perhaps I ought to have said that the aristocracy are the natural leaders of the nation, and not of the people. There is a difference, is there not?” I appreciated the concession in civility implied in the appeal. I was evidently gaining ground. “I quite see the distinction, and it is a true paradox.” Young Gascoyne, who had seemed anxious and fearful during the first part of the meal, feeling that I had conquered and entered the outer works of at least acquaintanceship, grew happier, and said: “Rank is afraid that Uncle Gascoyne will hardly be pleased to find that he has made friends with us.” “I am not afraid,” I interposed hastily, for I saw that Miss Gascoyne had stiffened perceptibly. “You said he was sure to be annoyed.” “That is quite a different thing. He has been very kind to me, but he can hardly expect to veto my acquaintances.” I was about to say “friends,” but checked myself in time and added: “Besides, I don’t think he would wish to do so.” “He seems rather a jolly old chap from what you say.” “He is everything that is generous.” I made a point of always speaking enthusiastically of Mr. Gascoyne. Someone was sure sooner or later to repeat what I said. “We should be sorry to do anything to injure your prospects, Mr. Rank.” Miss Gascoyne spoke with just the faintest suspicion of stiffness. “I don’t think that is likely,” I laughed.