“Oh, well, imperfection will last my time, Miss St. Clair. And if I cannot find perfection in this sweet Arcadia of yours, why I deserve to. . . .” “Get Sister Gertrude to find it for you in the slums. How provoking there’s the bell, and only just time to dress for dinner.” CHAPTER V. The business that had taken Edward Beaumont to Caistorholm was progressing satisfactorily, and the Archdeacon and the other shareholders had every reason to congratulate themselves on having invited his assistance. It had been the usual story, a large industrial concern successfully and prosperously conducted so long as its founders had been young, energetic, and single-eyed. When they had made their fortunes and courted ease they had converted the business into a company, retaining a connection with it as salaried directors. They had put their own price on what they had to sell to the company and had not felt called upon exactly to kill themselves by working too hard as directors. With a concern much over-capitalised and lax management, the natural result had ensued; but Beaumont had seen that with some reduction of sharemoney and better management, the situation might be saved. He had impressed his views on the general body of shareholders without any difficulty, and had cared not a rap for the black looks of the directors compulsorily retired. All this had kept him busy enough, and every post brought him letters, copies of accounts, drafts of legal documents, and such like. One morning, as the Vicarage party were at breakfast, and the Archdeacon had opened the letter-bag and distributed its contents, Edward was smiling over a petulant letter from Storth, who wanted to know if he intended to spend the whole of the Long Vacation at Caistorholm, and if he expected his long-suffering partner to submit to being cooped up in the office when all the rest of the legal world was on the moors or drinking the waters or sniffling the salt sea air. “Poor Sam! it’s too bad, after he’d rigged himself out for the moors. Ah, well! he must spell patience for another week anyhow,” he reflected. “Do Radicals dance, Mr. Beaumont?” asked Eleanor. “Yes, you’re right, papa, it’s from the Countess.” “Do Radicals dance? Some of them do, I believe. I know one who tries, _et après_?” “The Countess of Yarborough asks us to dinner for the —th, and there’s to be dancing afterwards. It won’t be a ball, you know. Only the house-party down with Lord Lindsey for the shooting and a few neighbours. It will be very nice, though. Of course, we can go, papa?” “Yes, why not? Write and accept at once, Eleanor. You’ll join us, Beaumont?” “If——” “Oh! there’s neither if nor but in it. Lady Yarborough will be delighted to see you, and you’ll get on well with young Lindsey, that’s her son, you know. He’s been at Heidelburgh lately, studying philosophy. Said Oxford was decadent and obstructive. I’m sure I don’t know what’s come over all the young fellows now-a-days.”