‘I hope you will leave your dowry outside when you come across this threshold,’ said Laura, with a smile that was more contemptuous than relenting. ‘I can accept friendship from no one who does not like my husband.’ ‘Then I will struggle with the original man within me, and try to like John Treverton. Believe me, Laura, I want to be your friend--in honest and unequivocal friendship.’ ‘That is the kind of friendship I expect from your father’s son,’ said Laura, in a gentler tone. She was too happy, too secure in her own happiness to be unforgiving. She reasoned with herself--arguing against instinct and conviction--and told herself that Edward Clare’s malevolent look had meant less than it seemed to mean. Edward looked on, and saw John Treverton play his part as host and master in a manner that he was compelled to admit was irreproachable. The new squire showed none of the pride in himself and his surroundings which might have been anticipated in a man unexpectedly raised to the possession of a large fortune. He did not brag of his wine, or his horses, his pictures, or his farm. He accepted his position as quietly, and filled it as naturally, as if he had been born heir to an entailed, unalienable estate. ‘Upon my word, they are a charming couple,’ said Sir Joshua Parker, in his fat voice, ‘and an acquisition to our county families.’ Sir Joshua was very fond of talking about our county families, although his own establishment in that galaxy had been but recent, his father and grandfather having made their fortunes in the soap-boiling business, amidst the slums of Lambeth. Lady Barker, the dowager, was of the _vieille roche_, having been a Trefusis and an heiress when she married the late General Sir Rodney Barker, K.C.B. After that one little flash of anger on the night of the dinner-party, Edward Clare was all friendliness. Celia spent a large portion of her life at the Manor House, where she was always welcome; and it seemed only natural that her brother Edward should drop in frequently, almost as he had done in the old days when Jasper Treverton was alive. There were so many reasons for his coming. The library at the Manor House was much larger and better than the vicar’s modest collection of old-fashioned books. The gardens were a delight to the young man’s poetic soul. John Treverton showed no dislike to him. He appeared to consider the poet a poor creature, whose going or coming could make no difference. ‘I confess that I have a contempt for that kind of man,’ he told his wife, candidly. ‘An effeminate, white-handed mortal, who sets up as a wit and a poet on the most limited stock-in-trade--all his best goods in his windows, and nothing but empty shelves inside the shop. But, of course, as long as you like him, Laura, he will be welcome here.’ ‘I like him for the sake of his father and mother, who are my oldest and best friends,’ answered Laura.