Indeed, Fan’s ordinary quiet, reserved manner in society was transformed as Oliver had never seen it before to a stranger, though he had always been aware that it masked an ardent temperament. She was exclaiming brightly, in answer to Harry’s far from discriminating praise of the mill-house parlour. In fact the lad’s satisfaction, though he was guiltless of any intention to produce such an impression, gave Oliver Constable the impression that the family sitting-room reminded Harry, in a confused not disagreeable way, of the parlour of one of those rural alehouses which his pursuits had led him to frequent a good deal. ‘I am so happy to hear you like this room,’ said Fan, ‘because the parlour at Copley Grange Farm’ (which any impartial person would have pronounced greatly inferior in Oliver’s judgment, and which Fan had been in the habit of holding in very low estimation) ‘is just such another homely, old-fashioned place. I must believe they have their merits, since they strike you favourably. You have always been fond of a country life, you tell me; then I think you will like being a farmer. Hay-making, of course, is charming, and bean-hoeing is not bad—to watch, at least. And you will take a deep interest in your cattle and poultry, won’t you?’ ‘What has come over Fan,’ was Oliver’s dumb protest. ‘_She_ never made hay in her life. I did not suppose she condescended to observe there was a species of pulse called beans. As for ducks, she only considers them in the light of furnishing dishes for the table. I am convinced she has not looked into a duck’s nest, or fed the ducklings afterwards, since she was herself a chick of five years old.’ In the meantime, in answer to Harry Stanhope’s fervent assurance that he luxuriated in all country work and adored every kind of live stock, Fan was saying, almost wistfully, she appeared so anxious that he should not be disappointed in his ridiculous experiment, ‘And you will not mind that you are tenant instead of landlord?’ ‘Not a bit,’ answered sanguine Harry, who had not minded anything, save not getting his play, since he was born. Oliver was inclined to tax his sister with insincerity and with indiscretion in pledging them to support Harry Stanhope in his delusion, the moment the visitors left. But before he could begin, Fan, still in high spirits, took his arm and walked him out to the garden. Half of it was already in cold shadow, while in the other half the long slanting rays of the sun were kindling the low beds of pink saponaria into a rosy red, shining through the blue cups of the nemophila—warming them to the tone of the summer sky, performing a fine process of silvering on the white bells of the tall campanula. ‘Isn’t it jolly?’ demanded Fan, taking the first word, in her delight departing from her correct Queen’s English, which was generally as perfect as Becky Sharp’s French. ‘To think that two of your old college friends should come and settle in this way on the very next farm to us!’