A minute later there was a general leave-taking. Oddly enough it found the Squire in the midst of a conversation with Langham. As though to show more clearly that it was the Rector personally who was in his black books, Mr. Wendover had already devoted some cold attention to Catherine both at and after dinner, and he had no sooner routed Robert than he moved in his slouching way across from Mr. Bickerton to Langham. And now, another man altogether, he was talking and laughing--describing apparently a reception at the French Academy--the epigrams flying, the harsh face all lit up, the thin bony fingers gesticulating freely. The husband and wife exchanged glances as they stood waiting, while lady Charlotte, in her loudest voice, was commanding Rose to come and see her in London any Thursday after the first of November. Robert was very sore. Catherine passionately felt it, and forgetting everything but him, longed to be out with him in the park comforting him. ‘What an absurd fuss you have been making about that girl,’ Wynnstay exclaimed to his wife as the Elsmere party left the room, the Squire conducting Catherine with a chill politeness. ‘And now, I suppose, you will be having her up in town, and making some young fellow who ought to know better fall in love with her. I am told the father was a grammar-school headmaster. Why can’t you leave people where they belong?’ ‘I have already pointed out to you,’ Lady Charlotte observed calmly, ‘that the world has moved on since you were launched into it. I can’t keep up class-distinctions to please you; otherwise, no doubt, being the devoted wife I am, I might try. However, my dear, we both have our fancies. You collect Sèvres china with or without a pedigree,’ and she coughed dryly; ‘I collect promising young women. On the whole, I think my hobby is more beneficial to you than yours is profitable to me.’ Mr. Wynnstay was furious. Only a week before he had been childishly, shamefully taken in by a Jew curiosity dealer from Vienna, to his wife’s huge amusement. If looks could have crushed her, Lady Charlotte would have been crushed. But she was far too substantial as she lay back in her chair, one large foot crossed over the other, and, as her husband very well knew, the better man of the two. He walked away, murmuring under his mustache words that would hardly have borne publicity, while Lady Charlotte, through her glasses, made a minute study of a little French portrait hanging some two yards from her.