, he seemed to be afflicted with an unreasonable idea that
other people would not remember what he was; a good man, no doubt, and
probably a sensible one, but with no gift for popularity. His handsome
son easily eclipsed him there. At this time young Lacey was bordering on
eighteen; he out-topped his father in stature as in grace. He was a
singularly attractive boy with a hearty gayety, a flow of talk, and an
engaging conviction that everybody wanted to listen. Childless old Mrs.
Dormer was delighted to listen, to feast her eyes on his comeliness, and
to pet him to any extent he desired.

As a whole the company was a little stiff, and the joints of
conversation rather in want of oiling, until they struck on that most
fruitful and sympathetic subject--a common dislike. The victim was our
neighbor and tenant at Hatcham Ford, Leonard Octon. I knew him, for he
had been something of a friend of old Mr. Driver's, and had been
accorded free leave to walk as he pleased in the park; I had
understood--and could well understand--that he was not generally liked,
but never before had I realized the sum of his enormities. He had, it
seemed, offended everybody. Charitable young Lacey did indeed qualify
the assertion that he was a "bounder" by the admission that he was
afraid of nobody and could shoot. All the other voices spoke utter
condemnation. He had got at odds with town, county, and church. His
opinions were considered detestable, his manners aggressive. On various
occasions of controversy he had pointed out to the Rector of Catsford
that the pulpit was not of necessity a well of truth, to the Mayor that
a gilt chain round his neck had no effect on the stuff inside a man's
head, to Sir John Aspenick that one might understand horses and fail to
understand anything else, to a large political meeting that of all laws
mob-law was the worst, to Lord Fillingford that the rule of intelligence
(to which Octon wished to revert) was no more the rule of country
gentlemen than of their gardeners--perhaps not so much--and so on. These
outrages were not narrated by the victims of them: they were recalled by
sympathetic questions and reminders, each man tickling the other's
wound. It could not be denied that they made up a sad catalogue of
social crimes.

"The fellow may think what he likes, but he needn't tread on all our
toes," Sir John complained.

"A vulgar man!" observed Lady Sarah with an acid finality.

Here, somewhat to my surprise