“Not so much the people as the atmosphere. The air seems laden with small trivialities. I feel like the man in ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ who lived in a cloud of dust that he was constantly raising. Whereas life ought to be lived on a breezy upland, with your face to the sea.” “I think I understand what you mean, though your reminiscences of Bunyan are a trifle mixed. And perhaps the dust is better for you.” “Not a bit of it, when it’s of one’s own making. Now _you_ haven’t a scrap of dust in your house.” “I’m not so sure. Look at that piano. Anyhow, you didn’t come all this way so early in the morning to treat me to a revised version of Bunyan’s allegory. What’s the matter, Ronald?” “I believe the old man’s jealous of me. He says I’m over here too often—that people are beginning to talk, and all manner of rot. I’m almost sure he wants to marry you himself.” “My dear boy, you’re dreaming. Do you think that I would abandon my independence, and all my advanced theories on women, to adopt your uncle’s musty, antediluvian ideas? Not a bit of it. Why I’d sooner marry _you_, if the worst came to the worst, though even that wouldn’t suit me either.” “It would suit _me_,” muttered Ronald, “just down to the ground.” The uncle’s sight had of late been failing him, owing to some weakness or lesion of the nerve that no spectacles could remedy. Under these circumstances, his favourite amanuensis was Ronald; for, though I regret to say it, his sister’s spelling was occasionally defective, and his uncle was particular above all things that his correspondence should be strictly orthographic. Not that this characteristic could be imputed to Miss Heyward as a fault, especially in these days, when even Peeresses (I am told) have adopted phonetic spelling, and orthography has been relegated to our village schools as the symbol of a lower and less intellectual class. But the uncle was conservative in everything but politics, and regarded the innovation as a forecast of the nation’s decadence. One morning he called Ronald into his study, with a thoughtful, pre-occupied air that betokened business of more than average importance. “Ronald, I’m thinking of marrying—and who do you suppose is my choice? A great friend of yours by the way, Mrs. Thorpe. I like her amazingly; a most well-bred woman, who will look famously at the head of my table. Then again, she’s got money, though it’s true I don’t want it. And her property marches with mine; and we’ll enclose it all in a ring fence, and have the finest estate in the county. She’s got a few crotchets, I know, but they’ll soon be ousted when she’s found a sensible man to advise her. I grant I’m a trifle old for her, but people think nothing of that in these days when the fault is on the right side. What do you say to it? a good idea, isn’t it?” “Very good indeed, sir,” said Ronald—demurely, but doubtingly.