“I think a good deal at odd times about this point, Margaret,” he said, “and as the English race is deeply concerned with it, it’s one we all have to think about. We have an instinct for aristocracy. I don’t say that we have the thing, but we have the instinct for the thing. Deep down, the Englishman knows that he has no real esteem for discoverers and inventors, like Fram and myself. He wants somebody much more varied, much better bred, used to leisure, generously brought up, able in all sorts of affairs, skilled and bright and beautiful. But the discoverer and inventor, no. As a matter of fact, the world doesn’t need discoveries; it doesn’t know how to use discovery; it abuses every discovery. What the world cries out for is not the ordinary, such as Fram and myself, but the extraordinary, who will lift the conception of life, government and nationality, which are all so low all over the world. In their blind, groping way, the English feel that, and therefore give enormous chances to the leisured people among whom such a spirit may emerge. He may never emerge. I sometimes think he won’t. But I do think that our best sort of gentleman (a very different being from the usual sort) is the best extant attempt at what the world really needs.”
Frampton came into the room, looking strangely handsome as he always did, when excited by work.
“Aha, my Peggy,” he called. He crossed the room, caught her by both hands and swung her round. “I’ve got little Rolly Marcham coming to-night,” he said. “I’ve got a large-scale map of the place; my photos will come out from Stubbington; and here are some of my little sketches. Well go over the plans together, my Peggy, with Marcham, and then to-morrow we’ll go to the house again, he and I, if you’d rather not come, so that he can be ready to get busy as soon as the lawyers are fixed.”
“You’ve not wasted much time,” she said. “Here’s your tea.”
“It’s a foul sort of poison, tea,” he said. “It came in with good taste; it spread with the public school.”
“It came in and spread to make men fit for the society of ladies after dinner,” she retorted. “Till tea came in, you lay below the tables till next morning.”
“One thing about this
“I think we can fix that,” Frampton said.
“Well, there’s another thing, which probably won’t weigh with you. You may find your neighbours rather stuck in the last century, if not in the century before. There’s been a great drain away from the country: even since I was a boy, men of character and brain have been flying from it, and what remains may be very much sediment. It’s a pity, but it is so.”
“One can get friends from all over the place,” Frampton said. “The car has made a world of difference. Besides, Stubbington is a considerable place, and Tatchester isn’t far.”
“You’ll have friends enough, and you’ll have the Works,” the old man went on. “But I’m thinking of the loneliness for the maids, and for your wife. I noticed a good many pheasants as we came along; and most of the inns were called ‘The Horse and Groom’ or ‘The Fox and Hounds.’ It’s what is called a sporting district. Here’s the leaflet of Piggott, the agent. He says: ‘This well-known residential country offers sport with three packs of hounds.’ I imagine, that if you don’t hunt or shoot, and I haven’t noticed any signs of either in you, you won’t find many friends among your neighbours. You won’t mind, but there’ll be others.”
“Meaning me?” Margaret cried. “But I shall have music and the garden and all sorts of reading to do. The clergyman will call, and the local syndicate of married women will send somebody to see and report. Who knows? She may like me.”
“Now you come along, Peggy,” Frampton said, “and look at these plans. This is the kind of thing I want to do.”
They went through the plans together. Margaret made suggestions; the old man left them to it. After dinner, little Rolly Marcham was announced. He was somewhat like a robin in build and brightness. He had a strange way of hopping on to a chair when excited by something beautiful. He was a lover of the arts, but was one of those who felt that art began in England in 1660, with the restoration of Charles the Second. He was a fine architect. He had done all the alterations to the house in which the Mansells were. He had caught the express, on hearing from Frampton.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Marcham,” Frampton said. “I hope it wasn’t inconvenient?”
“Not in the least. Delighted,” Marcham said. It had been very inconvenient; he had had to break an evening’s engagement with his fiancée, and sacrifice his theatre tickets; his fiancée was not well pleased with him.
“D’you know