If she were obliged to have recourse to these expedients it was not her fault; it was the fault of her father-in-law, who was so miserably stingy, and of her settlements which were so miserable, and of society which compels anybody who is in it to live in a certain way. Why did Providence (a vague personage in whom she as vaguely believed) put you where you were obliged every day to do quantities of things which cost money unless that arbiter of fate supplied you with the necessary means? CHAPTER XVI. There was an old friend of his mother to whom Hurstmanceaux was much attached, a Mrs. Raby of Bedlowes, with whom he invariably spent a few days at Whitsuntide. Bedlowes was a romantic and historic old manor in Hampshire, famous for its gigantic yew-trees, and a bowling-green on which Charles the First had played. To this elderly lady Mouse frankly unfolded her budget of matrimonial projects; and Mrs. Raby, who shared the prejudices of Hurstmanceaux against _novi homines_, but was persuaded to conquer them for the general good, consented to allow the Massarenes to be presented to her at a Marlborough House party, and graciously invited them to go to her for a couple of days in Whitsun week. When the time came Mr. Massarene, who was told nothing, but surmised that this was the place at which the meeting with Hurstmanceaux was arranged, took his daughter down to this historic and romantic old house; it had belonged to John of Gaunt, and had sheltered in the centuries of its existence many noble and unfortunate personages, the traditions of whose sojourn did not agree with the visit of “Blasted Blizzard” to its stately guest-chambers and its tapestried halls. Mrs. Raby was a person genial, kind-hearted, and of great simplicity of manner and taste, who pleased Katherine and did not alarm her father; indeed he thought, irreverentially, to himself, “Blast me if she don’t look like an old New England Shaker sempstress,” for the _châtelaine_ of Bedlowes wore her own grey hair in the fashion of the year ’40, had plain black gowns made by her women, and a very simple and homely manner. There was a large party assembled, of notable and interesting people, amongst whom William Massarene was as a false note in a Beethoven rendering. But society, even the best society, has grown used to such false notes, and does not mind them. There is the ring of gold in the discord. Daddy Gwyllian, who was there--as where was he not?--said to his hostess, who was his cousin, as were ninety-nine out of every hundred persons: “Why, bless us and save us, my dear Adela, have _you_ been brought to recognize the new man from North Dakota? I thought you were the last Tory stronghold still left standing in the country? Do you mean you have capitulated to Harrenden House?” Mrs. Raby’s sweet temper was a little ruffled. “The man is a sound Tory,” she said pettishly. “If I have him here I have a very good reason for doing so.”