"The farm lands have a waste and dreary look," he wrote, "though I let them to a man who should verily have known how to till the soil trodden by his fathers--and as for the farmhouse, 'twas like a hollow shell that has lain long on the shore and become brown and brittle--for thou knowest no human creature has entered there since we departed. However, Valdemar Svensen and I, for sake of company, have resolved to dwell together in it, and truly we have nearly settled down to the peaceful contemplation of our past days,--so Philip, and thou, my child Thelma, trouble not concerning me. I am hale and hearty, the gods be thanked,--and may live on in hope to see you both next spring or summer-tide. Your happiness keeps this old man young--so grudge me not the news of your delights wherein I am myself delighted."
One familiar figure was missing from the Manor household,--that of Edward Neville. Since the night at the Brilliant, when he had left the theatre so suddenly, and gone home on the plea of illness, he had never been quite the same man. He looked years older--he was strangely nervous and timid--and he shrank away from Thelma as though he were some guilty or tainted creature. Surprised at this, she spoke to her husband about it,--but he, hurriedly, and with some embarrassment, advised her to "let him alone"--his "nerves were shaken"--his "health was feeble"--and that it would be kind on her part to refrain from noticing him or asking him questions. So she refrained--but Neville's behavior puzzled her all the same. When they left town, he implored, almost piteously, to be allowed to remain behind,--he could attend to Sir Philip's business so much better in London, he declared, and he had his way. Errington, usually fond of Neville's society, made no attempt whatever to persuade him against his will,--so he stayed in the half-shut-up house in Prince's Gate through all the summer heat, poring over parliamentary documents and pamphlets,--and Philip came up from the country once a fortnight to visit him, and transact any business that might require his personal attention.
On one of the last and hottest days in August, a grand garden-party was given at the Manor. All the county people were invited, and they came eagerly, though, before Thelma's social successes in London, they had been reluctant to meet her. Now, they put on their best clothes, and precipitated themselves into the Manor grounds like a flock of sheep seeking land on which to graze,--all wearing their sweetest propitiatory smirk--all gushing forth their admiration of "that darling Lady Errington"--all behaving themselves in the exceptionally funny manner that county people affect,--people who are considered somebodies in the small villages their big houses dominate,--but who, when brought to reside in London, become less than the minnows in a vast ocean. These good folks were not only anxious to see Lady Errington--they wanted to say they had seen her,--and that she had spoken to them, so that they might, in talking to their neighbors, mention it in quite an easy, casual way, such as--"Oh, I was at Errington Manor the other day, and Lady Errington said to me--." Or--"Sir Philip is such a charming man! I was talking to his lovely wife, and he asked me--" etc., etc. Or--"You've no idea what large strawberries they grow at the Manor! Lady Errington showed me some that were just ripening--magnificent!" And so on. For in truth this is "a mad world, my masters,"--and there is no accounting for the inexpressibly small follies and mean toadyisms of the people in it.