Wilson and Ben laughed, but not quite a whole-hearted laugh. A Tory--every species of Conservative--was a poor thing, was the general Thanshope opinion, but they had always thought of Tories more as harmless old women, or vulgar ‘risen’ men, like Mr. Spenceley, than as anything so actively mischievous and to be eschewed as their absentee employer, Sebastian Mallory. ‘He’s ashamed of the place, and the people, and the business that has made him what he is. And that’s why he won’t come back.’ ‘I say, Myles, who told you all this?’ inquired Wilson, deferentially. ‘That I’m not at liberty to say; but not one of the men from the stables, old lad,’ said Myles. ‘But my authority is a good one, and it’s what I’ve suspected for years. I’ve heard of his doings. He goes about with parsons. He’s trying all he can to shake himself free of trade. He’ll try to do it by marrying a lord’s daughter--that’s what these shoddy Conservatives always do--she’ll spend his money for him, and if he says anything, she’ll tell him it smells of cotton, and she wants to get rid of it.’ ‘Nay, nay, now!’ interrupted Ben, with feeling. ‘But she will,’ said Myles, looking as angry as if the fair and contemptuous aristocrat stood in person before them. ‘I know. Don’t we all know what happened to Jack Brierley’s lad, and how----’ Clang, clang, clang! went the great bell in the courtyard. It was two minutes past six. Wilson raised himself rapidly from his recumbent attitude, and began to turn over his papers, calling Ben to his side to help him. The discussion as to the merits or demerits of Sebastian Mallory, who certainly formed a striking instance of the theory that _les absents ont toujours tort_, was over; soon the office was filled with a pushing, elbowing crowd, waiting more or less impatiently to receive the hire of their week’s labour.