The Vicar agreed that the demand was modest. He would have preferred a son of a more active and eager temperament--a son who would have taken to the church, or law, or medicine, or even soldiering. But it was not for him to complain if Heaven had given him a genius, instead of a commonplace plodder. It was the old story of the ugly duck, no doubt. By-and-by, the snow-white wings would unfold themselves for a noble flight, and the admiring world would acknowledge the beauty of the swan. Mrs. Clare, who adored her only son, after the manner of weak-minded mothers, was delighted to have him at home, for good, as she said, delightedly. She made his den as luxurious as her small means would allow; put up bookshelves wherever he wanted them, covered his mantleboard with velvet, and draped it with point lace of her own working, bought him cigar stands and ash trays, tobacco jars and fusee boxes, blotting books, slippers, down pillows for his hours of lassitude, soft fluffy rugs to cover his feet when he sank on his snug little couch, prostrate after lengthened wrestling with an unpropitious muse. All that a doting mother can do to spoil a young man, Mrs. Clare did for her son; and it happened, unfortunately, that he was not made of that strong stuff which the sweet flatteries of love cannot corrupt. There were certain hours when the poet was approachable. At five o’clock on those evenings when the brother and sister were not at the Manor House, Celia used to bring him a cup of coffee, and the small stock of gossip which she had been able to collect in the course of her frivolous day. She would seat herself on a hassock beside the fire, or even on the edge of the fender, and chatter gaily, while Edward lay back in his easy chair, sipping his coffee, and listening with an air of condescending indulgence. A good deal of Celia’s talk was naturally about her friends at the Manor House. She had got over her prejudice against John Treverton, and was even enthusiastic in her praise of him. He was ‘quite too lovely.’ As a husband she declared him ‘perfect.’ She wished that Heaven had made her such a man. ‘I really think Laura is the luckiest girl in creation!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such a husband, such a house, such a stable, such gardens, such a rent-roll! It is almost provoking to see her take everything so quietly. I believe she is grateful to Providence, because she is dreadfully religious, you know. But her placidity almost enrages me. If I had half such good fortune I should want to jump over the moon!’ ‘Laura is thoroughly good style, my dear. Well-bred people never want to jump over the moon,’ Edward remarked, languidly. ‘Strictly fraternal,’ ejaculated Celia, with a shrug.