When the glorious Restoration came the Lincolnshire lord was welcomed at Whitehall, perhaps because, having made few sacrifices for the Stuarts, Charles felt he owed the family nothing, and they wanted nothing from him. The Court of the second James smelt too much of incense for the stomach of the Earl, and he kept to his hunting and farming in the Fens, and had no difficulty in wearing the Orange favours when James fled the country. Since that time the Yarboroughs had been consistent Whigs, but they did not conceive that their Whiggery compelled them to quarrel with their neighbours. They had made no bones about Catholic emancipation, and, indeed, were on friendly terms with not a few of the Catholic families to be found in Lincolnshire. They had supported Jack Russell and his Reform Bill, had made a wry face over Household Suffrage, and now the Earl, who cared little for politics, but thought Lord Granville an ideal Foreign Secretary, was counted a friend of Mr. Gladstone, thinking that his dangerous political proclivities would be finally corrected by his admirable High Church principles. But it was whispered in the county that the heir and hope of the family had returned from the Continent tainted with rank heresies of every kind. This was the Lord Lindsey, whom marriage was expected to sober. “I don’t suppose we shall see the Earl,” said the Archdeacon, as the carriage rapidly traversed the distance between the Vicarage and the Towers. “He is a great invalid and seldom shows at the dinner table. Like the Speaker of the House he takes his homely chop when his guests are dining. I shall go to him in his room and smoke my cigar with him whilst you young folk are romping. Wright will, no doubt, be invited, and he’ll find you some partners.” Edward had not much confidence in any help likely to be vouchsafed by the master of Thorsby Manor. Some thirty guests gathered in the drawing room a few minutes before the clanging of the dinner-gong, and a sparkling, blue-eyed damsel of some twenty summers fell to Edward’s lot. He would have preferred to take down Miss St. Clair, but Miss Edith des Forges left him no leisure to indulge regrets. “You’re staying at Caistorholme Vicarage, Eleanor St. Clair tells me. I stayed there three years ago, just after I left school. Eleanor and I were at school together. Mrs. St. Clair was alive then, poor dear. I flirted outrageously with the Archdeacon, and she wasn’t a bit jealous. It’s such fun flirting with a parson, don’t you know.” “Can’t say, I’m sure. I’ll take your opinion, Miss des Forges. Are you an authority on flirting?” “Well, pretty fair. I ought to be. Practice makes perfect. Don’t you think Eleanor simply beautiful? Don’t look at her. She is looking at us. I’m sure that stupid George Wright is boring her to death. But I suppose she’ll have to get used to it.” “Ah! Why?” “How long have you been at the Vicarage?” “A fortnight.” “And you don’t know why?” “’Pon my word I don’t.”