“And still she’ll have to do as he tells her. Don’t you know yet, mother, that Jos has no more will than a mouse? But never mind, we can afford his thirty pounds. Ovington is giving me a hundred and fifty, and I’m to have another hundred as secretary to this new Company—that’s news for you. With your two hundred and fifty we shall be able to pay his rent and still be better off than before. I shall buy a nag—Packham has one to sell—and move to better rooms in town.” “But you’ll still be in that dreadful bank,” Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. “Really, Arthur, with so much money it seems a pity you should lower yourself to it.” He had some admirable qualities besides the gaiety, the alertness, the good looks that charmed all comers; ay, and besides the rather uncommon head for figures and for business which came, perhaps, of his Huguenot ancestry, and had commended him to the banker. Of these qualities patience with his mother was one. So, instead of snubbing her, “Why dreadful?” he asked good-humoredly. “Because all our county fogies look down on it? Because having nothing but land, and drawing all their importance from land, they’re jealous of the money that is shouldering them out and threatening their pride of place? Listen to me, mother. There is a change coming! Whether they see it or not, and I think they do see it, there is a change coming, and stiff as they hold themselves, they will have to give way to it. Three thousand a year? Four thousand? Why, if Ovington lives another ten years what do you think that he will be worth? Not three thousand a year, but ten, fifteen, twenty thousand!” “Arthur!” “It is true, mother. Ay, twenty, it is possible! And do you think that when he can buy up half a dozen of these thickheaded Squires who can just add two to two and make four—that he’ll not count? Do you think that they’ll be able to put him on one side? No! And they know it. They see that the big manufacturers and the big ironmasters and the big bankers who are putting together hundreds of thousands are going to push in among them and can’t be kept out! And therefore trade, as they call it, stinks in their nostrils!” “Oh, Arthur, how horrid!” Mrs. Bourdillon protested, “you are growing as coarse as your uncle. And I’m sure we don’t want a lot of vulgar purse-proud——” “Purse-proud? And what is the Squire? Land-proud! But,” growing more calm, “never mind that. You will take a different view when I tell you something that I heard to-day. Ovington let drop a word about a partnership.” “La, Arthur, but——”