Sir William and Lady Eldridge were spending the week-end at a great country house, the seat of a Cabinet Minister with whom Sir William had worked arduously during the war, to the undoubted advantage of the Department of which Lord Chippenham had been the head, and also to the advantage of the British taxpayer. For this Department—or at least that part of its work for which Sir William had been responsible—had escaped those accusations of waste and extravagance which were so freely and so regrettably made. The work had been done quietly, resourcefully and economically, and there were few who knew anything about its details. In fact, but for the large number of people who were rewarded for services during the war of whom nobody had ever heard before their names appeared in the Honours List, Sir William's knighthood might have aroused speculation. He had deserved it, at least as well as most, but it was not generally known what he had done, and there were to be found here and there those who thought that he had made money out of the war, and that his knighthood had eventuated in some way out of the money he had made. As a matter of fact he had done five years' hard work for nothing, and would have been richer than he was if he had confined his energies to his own affairs. But that never troubled him. He was rich enough for all ordinary purposes as it was, even with the ruinous taxation to which his income was subjected; and now that his public work had been wound up, and he was free again to work for himself, he was likely to become richer still.

There had been two flies in the ointment of his public success. One was that a K.B.E. was hardly a sufficient reward for his valuable services. He knew how valuable they had been, and that others who had done work that could not be compared with his had won regards far higher. He had asked for nothing, and had not breathed to a soul except his wife the disappointment he had felt at the closing of the chapter. Perhaps if he had advertised himself more— But reflection always brought him the gratifying sense of having done his work not for the sake of reward, and he was too active and eager in pursuing the aims to which he had now returned to dwell upon the disappointment. At the same time his chief had also known the value of his work, and might, if he had exerted himself, have influenced a higher recognition of it.

The other source of dissatisfaction was a much smaller affair. In fact he was rather ashamed of allowing it entrance to his mind, and had never mentioned it to his wife.

Lord Chippenham was an eminent public servant. He was also—or rather Lady Chippenham was—an eminent personality in the social world. Sir William had worked with him over years, but had never become intimate with him. He had dined once or twice with him in London; but in those strenuous times of the war that meant nothing, and since the war, when social entertainments were beginning to take their normal course, he had not even done that. Indeed, Lord Chippenham seemed to have forgotten him altogether, and he could not help feeling a little sore about it.

But then at last had come the invitation to Wellsbury, the famous Elizabethan house where it had been Lady Chippenham's pleasure to gather together parties of all that was most brilliant in the world, not only of fashion but of art and letters and whatever else could add variety and interest to her parties. The invitation gave him great pleasure, which he could not keep from his wife, who took it calmly enough. There were plenty of what are called "good houses" open to them, and if it had been their ambition to climb into the social prominence that is represented by mixing always with those who keep in the busy swim, there would have been no difficulty about it. That was no more of an end to him than it was to her; but Wellsbury was different. The climbers were not asked there; or if they were, their climbing ambitions were not the qualities most apparent in them. Also, you went to Wellsbury to enjoy yourself.

Sir William enjoyed himself exceedingly. So did Lady Eldridge, who found people among the numerous guests whom she liked and who liked her. They were not all strangers either. The Eldridges had a large circle of acquaintance in London, which touched other circles, and was always enlarging itself. There were people at Wellsbury during that week-end who knew less of the world gathered there than they did.

At least half the guests bore names that were well known, and some were of real eminence. And there were many young people, who made themselves merry, and were encouraged to do so, not only by their hostess, who was merry and high-spirited herself, but by the venerated Minister of State, who listened with a twinkling eye to the hubbub of talk and laughter that arose around him, and sometimes contributed to it. He spent much of his time during the day with the children who were collected there with the rest, and had a grandchild seated on either side of him at lunch on Sunday. He was a very charming benign old gentleman in his own lovely home; the word "harmless" might perhaps have been used to describe him as he showed himself there, and William Eldridge gained some amusement from the recollection of episodes in his official hours, when that epithet would not have seemed suitable.

It did occur to Sir William once or twice during those lovely summer days to ask himself whether he had been invited to Wellsbury with any particular object. He and his wife had been received there almost as if they were habituÉs of the house; and yet it was over a year since he had had word with Lord Chippenham at all, and this private recognition of him was at least tardy. But there was so much to see and to do, in the great house, full of its wonderful treasures, and full, too, of agreeable and interesting people, that he gave himself up to the flow of it all, and put aside the idea of anything to come of the visit except the pleasure of the visit itself.

Rain came on late on Sunday morning, and though it was not enough to keep everybody indoors and never looked like continuing, Sir William took the opportunity of writing a few letters after luncheon. There was a little panelled room off the billiard-room, which he had seen the evening before, with just one lovely early Dutch picture in it, and he went there rather than to his own room upstairs, partly because he wanted to look at the picture again, partly because of the satisfaction of making use of as many rooms as possible in this beautiful ancient house, in which for two days he was at home.

There was nobody in the billiard-room, or in the inner room, which was open to it, but also in part concealed. He had been there for some little time when two young men came into the billiard-room and began to play. He recognized them by their voices as Nigel Byrne, Lord Chippenham's private secretary, and William Despencer, the youngest son of the house. He went on writing, being now immersed in what he was doing, as his habit was, and paid no further attention to them. It did not occur to him that they would not know that anybody was in the inner room; he did not think about it at all, concentrated as his mind was on his writing. The click of the balls and the voices of the young men, who were playing in desultory fashion and talking all the time, came to him as an accompaniment to his thoughts, but with no more meaning than the noises of traffic would have had if he had been writing in a room in London.

But presently, as he leant back in his chair to consider something, a phrase struck upon his ear, and he woke up to the disagreeable fact that they were talking about him, and for all he knew might have been talking about him for the last ten minutes.

"The Chief thinks a lot of him. He did extraordinarily good work in the war."

"I know he did. These big business men did make themselves useful—some of them. Did pretty well out of it too."

"Eldridge didn't."

It was at this point that Sir William woke up to their speech, but what had come immediately before his name was mentioned, which his ears had taken in without conveying it to his brain, also turned itself into meaning.

"Perhaps not; though you never know. Anyhow, he's a new man, and I think we've saddled ourselves with quite enough of them. I think we ought to get back to the old sort—the men who come of good stock. They've always been the backbone of our party, and—"

The speaker was surprised by the appearance of the man he had been criticizing. Sir William stood in the arched recess at the end of the room, his pen in his hand, and a smile upon his face.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I've been writing in there, and have only just realized that you were talking about me."

The young men stared at him in consternation, and he spoke again, with the air of one who meant to dominate the situation. That was exactly what he did mean. A sudden crisis always strung him up to the most effective control of his powers, and he had formed his decision in the few seconds that had elapsed between the mention of his name and his standing before them.

"I really haven't been listening," he said. "I was too busy with what I was doing, or I'd have stopped you before. But I'm not exactly a new man, you know. You can look me up in a book, if you like. Eldridge of Hayslope, in Downshire. And I give you my word I haven't made a bob out of the war." Then he turned to go back to his writing.

William Despencer had been collecting himself during this speech. He was a young man of a serious cast of mind, conspicuously honest and straightforward, though of an outlook not of the widest. "I'm sorry you overheard what we were saying," he said. "And I apologize for the mistake I seem to have made. I'm glad you corrected me."

Sir William turned to him again, but Nigel Byrne broke in before he could speak. "You heard me defend you," he said with a pleasant smile, which, with his attractive appearance and ready speech was part of his qualification for the position he so admirably filled. "William was talking generally, and I happened to know that you weren't of the type. You'd have heard me say so when he came to the end of his speech; but he's always too long-winded."

"Oh, I don't mind that a bit," said Sir William. "I've been doing the things that the new men do—and some of the old ones too—for some years past. It was a natural mistake. I'm only sorry I let you in for it by keeping quiet in here. To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking of you. Perhaps I ought to apologize for that. Anyhow, please forget it."

"We will," said Byrne. "No offence meant and none taken, eh? I was coming to look for you after William and I had had our little game. The Chief wants you to go for a stroll with him at half-past three, if it clears up, and if not, will you go and have a chat with him in his room? I'll take you to him."

The invitation was so significant that it put out of Sir William's mind the awkwardness of the late occurrence, as he waited for the time when the great man should be ready for him. Perhaps it was only a mark of politeness to a guest, and there would be talk about this and that, but about nothing that would matter much to him. The work that they had been engaged upon together was over, and Lord Chippenham was not likely to want to go back to that. What could he want to see him about then? He hardly permitted himself to conjecture; but there was a sense of excitement hanging over him, and he looked many times at his watch as he went here and there in the house and examined the pictures and the other treasures of it, with appreciation, but not with all his attention.

When he had left the billiard-room the two young men looked at one another and Nigel Byrne laughed. "He took it very well, I think," he said. "Quite a nice fellow!"

William Despencer kept a grave face. "I wish I'd known he was there," he said. "Why didn't he let us know he was there when we came in?"

"Oh, I don't think he was eavesdropping. I say, let's look him up. I'm bound to say I never thought of him as anything but the usual rich city fellow, with no father to speak of."

"Like Melchizedek. I thought you were going to defend him against my aspersions, if he'd given you time."

"That was my famous tact, William. Eldridge of what, did he say? Ah, here it is."

There were current books of reference on a table in the billiard-room, and Byrne had opened one which dealt faithfully with the County Families and their genealogies.

"Oh, quite respectable!" he said, as they read the entry together. "He's next man in, too, do you see? Present man's only son killed in the war. He was at Harrow and Cambridge. We've done him an injustice, William. If at any time he likes to make a little contribution to party funds, and somebody or other recommends him for a peerage, he won't have to begin everything from the beginning like so many of them."

"Is that the idea?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Peerages aren't bought and sold in the market, you know, William. You ought to know better than that."

"Well, I still think the mistake was a natural one," said William Despencer, turning away. "He's too elaborate altogether. Those clothes! Just what a rich city fellow would wear who'd just discovered Saville Row."

"They're no better than mine. He's a good-looking fellow and likes to keep his youth. The Chief thinks a lot of him, you know. He'd like to work with him too, if he was in Parliament."

"His wife's a nice woman. I shall talk to her this evening. I'm sorry he heard me say what I did."

The sun had come out by the time Lord Chippenham was ready for his afternoon walk. Sir William's expectations of a serious talk were a little dashed when he discovered that it was to be taken in the company of two little granddaughters and two little dogs, and as they went down through the gardens and across the park it seemed as if Lord Chippenham's attention would be chiefly taken up by the four of them. However, no other grown-up person had been invited to join the party, and presently the children and the dogs detached themselves, and only returned to their base now and then, when Lord Chippenham broke off in whatever he might have been saying and talked to them until they were off again.

When the walk was over, and Sir William tried to give some concise account of what had happened to his wife, he found it difficult to put any particular point to it. Lord Chippenham seemed to want him in some undefined way, but had made no actual proposal. He ought to be in Parliament—perhaps as a preliminary to—to office? It almost seemed as if that were indicated; but it was all so vague, and the children were always interrupting at the most critical moments. At one time it almost seemed as if he were hinting that a seat in the House of Lords would be the simplest way to—to what? Really, it was impossible to say. The only definite thing that could be taken hold of was that when they had come in, Lord Chippenham, turning to go into his room, had said: "Well, I think we could do good work together again, and I hope we shall."

The i's seemed to be dotted to some extent later on in the day by Nigel Byrne, who made himself agreeable to Lady Eldridge, and told her that the Chief thought a lot of her husband. "Of course, he ought to be in Parliament," he said. "Has he ever thought about it, do you know?"

Eleanor thought that was intended as a preliminary to anything that might be preparing, though why Lord Chippenham or Mr. Byrne couldn't say so outright she couldn't think. And why had the constituency of West Loamshire been mentioned as a likely one, to her and not to William? Politics seemed to be a curiously mysterious game. Still, West Loamshire, where there was likely to be a vacancy shortly—though this was not to be repeated—had been mentioned; and, "I suppose your husband knows George Weldon—the Whip, you know," had been one of the things said that she had to report. She supposed they were meant to put two and two together. Probably, if William went to see George Weldon, he would get on to a more direct path altogether.

They talked it all over, motoring back to London the next morning. William had sometimes considered a parliamentary career, but not very seriously. He had been too busy with his affairs to take a great deal of interest in politics except where they touched his interests. It would be beginning something all over again, and the preliminary steps to candidature and election would take up a lot of time and money. But it would be different if the preliminaries were made easy for him, and there was something waiting for him that other men had to work up to through years. He was confident of being able to fill any position that might come to him, and had enough patriotism to make the prospect of doing something for his country that he could do better than other people attractive to him.

Eleanor would encourage him too. She was quite as interested in the possibilities they discussed together as he was. He knew that she was not particularly interested in his financial career. It had already brought them to the point where they had everything they wanted that money would give them, and that was all that business meant to her. What was the good of going on for the rest of your life just making more money? But she had liked him to tell her about the work he had been doing during the war, and it would be the same if he took up public work again.

They fell silent for a time, after they had talked it all over, and the big car carried them easily and swiftly along the country roads. Wellsbury was a two hours' run from London by the most direct route, but they were making it rather longer, so as to see more of the country and to avoid the straight high roads.

Sir William never failed to enjoy a ride in this fine car of his, which he had recently acquired, at immense expense. He did thoroughly enjoy all the things that his money bought him, and liked spending it on them; and the point of satiety which lies somewhere ahead on that road was not yet in sight with him. He enjoyed the luxurious upholstery of his new car; and even the well-clothed back of his chauffeur, with the discreet figure of Eleanor's maid beside it, gave him satisfaction, as adding to the conveniences of his life and hers. He liked to feel well dressed too, and that Eleanor should also be so; and that she should be the kind of woman who carried off beautiful and expensive clothes. He thought that she looked the equal of any of the women who had been at Wellsbury, and he was proud of her, and of the notice that had been taken of her.

Whatever might be the result of this visit, or if there should be no result of it, it stood as a source of completed gratification in itself. It seemed to have put the seal of success upon his career, and to have set him where he rightly belonged. It was not the sort of recognition that could have been gained by the possession of money, though in his case success in money-making had indirectly led up to it. His reflections were crossed by a momentary shadow at the remembrance of the mistake those two young men—or at least one of them—had made about him yesterday. Surely Lord Chippenham's son might have known that a merely new rich man would not have been made welcome at Wellsbury as he had been. There had been no one remotely resembling that breed among the guests of this party. Still, he had put that right, and it didn't really matter. He was perhaps aware in the background of his mind that exuberance was a note to be watchful of; his upbringing and the standards it had inculcated had made him careful to prune himself. He would not have been so careful if criticism from time to time had not shown him the necessity. Edmund, to whom as a young man he had looked up as the pattern of quiet, self-possessed good breeding, had criticized him on those grounds. He had never quite lost the feeling that Edmund was a finer type of gentleman than himself—until lately, when his own brilliant gifts had brought him into such prominence as Edmund would never attain to. Now he was a little impatient of that old feeling of slight inferiority to his brother, and whatever had survived of it seemed to have been wiped out by this visit to Wellsbury. Edmund would never have been invited to such a house unless it had happened to lie in his local zone of dignity as a landowner.

Sir William considered, in the glow of his satisfaction, as he was carried along between the hedgerows and the full-blossomed trees, the stock from which he had sprung and the altitudes to which he had arisen, which wanted some adjustment if he were to be proud of both, as his inclination was.

A family that went back two or three hundred years, and for most of the time as landowners in the same county, was something that only a small minority could claim. Yet the Eldridges had never really done anything that put them above the ruck of country squires. They had intermarried here and there with families of higher standing; they had kept their heads up in the world, and were in all the County Histories—as names, but little more. Their dignity had hardly extended beyond the head of the family for the time being. The younger sons were scarcely better off in that respect than the sons of other men, who could give them the right sort of education and start in life. He himself had begun life with no greater advantages than his contemporaries at school and university of birth not so good as his, and if he had not brought his own exceptional gifts into play he would have had just the position that his success at the Bar might have brought him, and no higher. Of course the altered circumstances brought about by the death of his brother's heir would have made a great difference to him, at least in prospect; but that loomed small now. But for the sentimental attachment which he felt towards the home of his fathers, he would not have cared much now to be Squire of Hayslope. It would not now be his chief claim to consideration, and if he had wished he could have bought himself a finer house than Hayslope and a larger property. Still, Hayslope did mean a good deal to him, and he was inclined to congratulate himself upon being content with the enlarged Hayslope Grange as his country house, and the consequent playing second fiddle to his brother, when he could so easily have been first somewhere else.

He spoke some of the thoughts which were running through his mind when he broke the silence to say to his wife: "I'm afraid poor old Edmund is having a thin time at Hayslope. Hard luck that the owner of a property like that should be pinched, as most of them are in these days, and we who used to think ourselves so much less fortunate should have got quite past them!"

She thought it nice of him to be thinking about his brother's difficulties at this time. She knew that he was exalted by the visit to Wellsbury, and the expectation of something to come out of it. He might have been thought to be full of his own affairs.

"I've had them a good deal on my mind," she said—"Edmund and Cynthia too, and the girls. But we can do something for them, can't we? I think I've been able to do something for Cynthia already, and without making her seem under an obligation."

"Oh, you can do things for Cynthia. But Edmund—he stands so on his dignity, you see. I think he's inclined to stand too much on his dignity, at least with me. After all, a country squire—I've come to be a good deal more than that, and I'm the one person whom he might accept help from."

"Does he really need help?"

"Oh, he can get along all right, of course. But it's a different life for him now. I suppose I couldn't expect him to accept money from me so that they could carry on in the way they did before the war. I'd give it him readily enough if he would, and be glad to. But there are ways in which I could help him—one in particular. But one must take him as he is. We must do what we can for Cynthia and the girls, and I shall always be on the lookout to do something for him if I can. I've got on and he's stood still—or gone back, rather. I don't want him to go back any further."