up
at him in return.
    She was remembering the schooling Felix had given her about her Byronic
heroes, and was inwardly adding a third sort of human nature to those varieties
which Harold had mentioned. He naturally supposed that he might take the
abjuration to be entirely in his own favour. And his face did look very
pleasant; she could not help liking him, although he was certainly too
particular about sauces, gravies, and wines, and had a way of virtually
measuring the value of everything by the contribution it made to his own
pleasure. His very good-nature was unsympathetic: it never came from any
thorough understanding or deep respect for what was in the mind of the person he
obliged or indulged; it was like his kindness to his mother - an arrangement of
his for the happiness of others, which, if they were sensible, ought to succeed.
And an inevitable comparison which haunted her, showed her the same quality in
his political views: the utmost enjoyment of his own advantages was the solvent
that blended pride in his family and position, with the adhesion to changes that
were to obliterate tradition and melt down enchased gold heirlooms into plating
for the egg-spoons of the people. It is terrible - the keen bright eye of a
woman when it has once been turned with admiration on what is severely true; but
then, the severely true rarely comes within its range of vision. Esther had had
an unusual illumination; Harold did not know how, but he discerned enough of the
effect to make him more cautious than he had ever been in his life before. That
caution would have prevented him just then from following up the question as to
the style of person Esther would think pleasant to live with, even if Uncle
Lingon had not joinéd them, as he did, to talk about soughing tiles; saying
presently that he should turn across the grass and get on to the Home Farm, to
have a look at the improvements that Harold was making with such racing speed.
    »But you know, lad,« said the rector, as they paused at the expected
parting, »you can't do everything in a hurry. The wheat must have time to grow,
even when you've reformed all us old Tories off the face of the ground. Dash it!
now the election's over: I'm an old Tory again. You see, Harold, a Radical won't
do for the county. At another election, you must be on the look-out for a
borough where they want a bit of blood. I should have liked