The evening of the Murewell Hall dinner-party proved to be a date of some importance in the lives of two or three persons. Rose was not likely to forget it; Langham carried about with him the picture of the great drawing-room, its stately light and shade, and its scattered figures, through many a dismal subsequent hour: and to Robert it was the beginning of a period of practical difficulties such as his fortunate youth had never yet encountered. His conjecture had hit the mark. The Squire’s sentiments toward him, which had been on the whole friendly enough, with the exception of a slight nuance of contempt provoked in Mr. Wendover’s mind by all forms of the clerical calling, had been completely transformed in the course of the afternoon before the dinner-party, and transformed by the report of his agent. Henslowe who knew certain sides of the Squire’s character by heart, had taken Time by the forelock. For fourteen years before Robert entered the parish he had been king of it. Mr. Preston, Robert’s predecessor, had never given him a moment’s trouble. The agent had developed a habit of drinking, had favored his friends and spited his enemies, and he allowed certain distant portions of the estate to go finely to ruin, quite undisturbed by any sentimental meddling of the priestly sort. Then the old Rector had been gathered to the majority, and this long-legged busybody had taken his place, a man, according to the agent, as full of communistical notions as an egg is full of meat, and always ready to poke his nose into other people’s business. And as all men like mastery, but especially Scotchmen, and as during even the first few months of the new Rector’s tenure of office it became tolerably evident to Henslowe that young Elsmere would soon become the ruling force of the neighborhood unless measures were taken to prevent it, the agent, over his nocturnal drams, had taken sharp and cunning counsel with himself concerning the young man.