It was a great chance for Jenny. Institutes as such, and all similar
works, Octon hated--why educate people who ought to be driven? The
insolence not of rank but of intellect spoke in him with a strong voice.
Bindlecombe he hated, and it was mainly Bindlecombe's idea. Catsford he
hated, because it was gradually but surely spreading to the gates of his
beautiful old house. Deeper than this, he hated being under anybody's
power; it was bitter to him that, when his mind was to stay,
anybody--whether Jenny or another--should be able to tell him to go.
Finally, his special position toward Jenny made the mere raising of the
question of his future residence a rare chance for her--a chance of
teasing and vexing, of coaxing and soothing, or of artful pretense that
there was no underlying question at all.

She told him about the project--it was nothing more, she was careful to
remark--after dinner one evening, in her most artless manner.

"It's a perfect idea--only I hope you wouldn't mind turning out?"

He had listened sullenly, pulling hard at his cigar. Chat was watching
him with alarmed eyes; he had cast his spell on Chat, that was certain;
there his boast did not go beyond truth.

"Being turned out, you mean, I imagine! I'd never willingly turn out to
make room for any such nonsense. Of all the humbugs----"

"It's my duty to do something for the town," she urged--very grave.

"Let them do their work by day and drink their beer by night. Fancy
those fellows in my house!"

"I'm sorry you feel like that. I thought you'd be interested--and--and
I'd try to find you a house somewhere else. There must be some other
houses, Mr. Austin?"

"One or two round about, I fancy," said I.

"Nice little ones--to suit a single man?" she asked, her bright eyes now
seeking, now eluding, a meeting with his.

"I suppose I can choose the size of my house for myself," Octon growled.
"I don't want Austin's advice about it."

"Oh, it wasn't poor Mr. Austin who--who spoke about the size of the
house." A sudden thought seemed to strike her. "You might stay on and be
something in the Institute!"

"I'd burn the house over my head sooner."

"Burn my pretty house! Oh, Mr. Octon! I should be so hurt--and you'd be
sent to prison! What a lot of police it would need to take you there!"

The last sentence mollified him--and it was clever of her to know that
it would. He had his primitive side, too. He was primitive enough to
love a compliment t