But Oliver Constable did not show himself remarkably cordial to absolute strangers, especially when they came from Copley Grange. On the contrary, he avoided them almost as resolutely as Fan did. He would make a point that the place should be free to the Dadds and Polleys of Friarton, or, for that matter, to any inhabitant of the town; for he earnestly wished that his fellow-townsmen of all classes—the lower the better—should profit by the rural beauty of Friarton Mill. But perhaps Catherine Hilliard was right when she said that he looked upon those persons who were not happy enough to belong to the trading class as outside his purpose. Indeed, Oliver Constable’s relations with the upper ten at Oxford, and all he had insensibly acquired from them, only rendered him more determined to have nothing to do with them. He waged no war with his superiors in social rank, but their respective paths lay wide apart. There were plenty of tuft-hunters and eager satellites struggling in the wake of the objects of their homage without Oliver’s adding himself to the number. Indeed, there was danger in the association; for the mere conception of another social atmosphere had spoilt Fan for her world, and her world for Fan. It should not spoil him—at least, so far as his work was concerned. It is very difficult for an ardent reformer to steer clear of partisanship. On the present occasion Oliver put up his back, and turned it in its rounded form on his company. At the same time he accomplished a feat in balancing himself, while winding one long leg round the other, much as if he were borrowing a pattern from a duck now standing at ease on a single leg before him. ‘That’s our man,’ said a genial voice behind him. ‘I thought I knew the back, and the attitude nails him beyond mistake. Constable, what are you doing here?’ Oliver could not lend a deaf ear to the enquiry; besides, he wondered who was making it. He wheeled round, and saw that the two figures in grey he had spied from a distance, had developed into two men—with whom he had been on terms of slight acquaintance, though they had not lived in his set, at Oxford. But what was a bare acquaintance on the banks of the Isis threatened to assert itself as a positive friendship up in Holmshire, on the threshold of Oliver’s mill. When Oliver considered Harry Stanhope’s rashness and thoughtlessness, Oliver felt he had not a moment to lose. He had never concealed his antecedents like poor Tom Neaves, but he must now state roundly what they had led to, before Harry swore eternal comradeship on the spot, and poor Horace backed his brother in this as in all else. ‘What am I doing here?’ echoed Oliver, with a laugh. ‘Everything. I am in my proper place. This is Friarton Mill, and I am the miller.’