‘The old fellows used to use that gate. They went out through it into the fields to fish in the river. They knew what they were about, those old grey-frocks. Show me an abbey that was not built on a site at once fertile, rich, and beautiful. I defy you, sir.’ ‘There was Whitby—it’s the only one I can remember; but it always struck me as being rather bleak,’ observed Jerome. ‘Well, Whitby, I grant you. But that was a nunnery. Women like to make themselves uncomfortable for the sake of religion, or what they think religion. But that’s neither here nor there, and if you are ready, I’ll go a little into detail.’ Jerome absently assented, and Mr. Netley was privately thinking, with some contempt: ‘He’s the old Wellfields all over again. Let him only be secure of what will keep him from absolute beggary, and he’ll sit down with it, rather than stir a finger. The only time at which you could arouse that race to a transient activity, was when they were absolutely hard-up. When there wasn’t a coin in the house, they would suddenly drop their pride, and descend to any expedient to stave off personal inconvenience and discomfort. And the most unscrupulous of the whole lot was this lad’s father. This fellow, it strikes me, has all the pride and all the laziness of the breed, but not their dishonesty, I should say. Mother’s blood, perhaps.’ Jerome must have been gratified indeed, could he have known his host’s opinion of him. There was not very much to be explained. It seemed that Mr. Wellfield had sold the Abbey about seven years ago, when Jerome was nineteen and Avice nine years of age. Mr. Netley explained about the ways in which the purchase-money had been invested, and how the bank failure had come about, which had brought the crash. He was a little surprised, and his theory as to Jerome’s want of character was shaken, when the young man said: ‘It seems to me that in any case, on my father’s death, I should have been reduced to poverty, for, had the money been remaining, I should have made it my first object to regain the Abbey—if I had had to spend every farthing to do so.’ ‘You would have found it no easy task, Mr. Wellfield. Mr. Bolton is greatly attached to the place, and I don’t think any price would tempt him.’ Jerome winced—it was galling in the extreme to have to hear of this man in possession with so firm a grasp upon what he had always regarded as his. He hated the thought, and once again, stronger than ever, the desire rushed over him to oust the usurper from his place. And once again succeeded the recoil, the miserable sense of poverty and helplessness, of impotency, which made his temples throb and his blood boil. He sat, with knitted brows, in moody silence, till at last he asked abruptly: ‘And this Monk’s Gate—is it habitable?’ ‘Oh, I should say so. I believe there is even some antiquated furniture in it.’ ‘I shall go over and see it, at any rate, before I decide upon anything else.’