one or two of his less distant
companions; but his laugh was like the harsh echo of a disused violin,
and he seldom or never invited anybody to see him at home.

One of the people whom he disliked most said that he was "a buttoned-up
man," and Richard Dryce could never forgive him--the description was so
true.

One of his most intimate friends, an alderman, of congenial temperament,
who had greatly distinguished himself by quarrelling and exchanging
vituperative epithets with another alderman on the magisterial bench,
seriously advised him to become a candidate for civic honours; but he
strenuously refused, although he ultimately permitted his son Robert to
achieve something like independence by becoming a liveryman of the
Worshipful Company of Twidlers, whose hall stood within the precincts of
Saint Simon Swynherde. It was only on the occasion of one of their
dinners that Robert was allowed to be out after ten o'clock; but that
restriction did not prevent his spending the larger number of his
evenings between eight o'clock and ten at the Twidlers' Hall, which
mouldy old structure, with its great, cold, lonely dining-room and
awkward polygonal ante-rooms decorated with portraits of deceased
dignitaries, held an attraction not to be found elsewhere, in the person
of pretty Agnes Raincliffe, the only daughter of the company's beadle.

For six months they had been under the sweet illusion that disinterested
affection must eventually win for itself a way to union; but old Mr.
Raincliffe had spoken seriously to them, and altogether forbade their
further meeting until Robert had spoken to his father. He went home that
very night, and, nerved to a sort of desperation, _did_ speak to his
father, ending with the usual declarations that his choice was
unalterable. Perhaps it was; but, whether or not, Richard Dryce went the
very way to make it so when he laughed that discordant laugh, and, with
a taunt against his son's weakness of purpose and his dependent
position, told him to dismiss such a scheming little hussey from his
thoughts, for he was to marry when he had permission, which would never
be granted to such a match as the beadle wanted to bring about.

Robert left his father's presence without a word; but in a week from
that date he had followed Agnes down into the country, whither she had
been sent out of the way. When he returned he wrote a letter to his
father, to say that they were married. It is easy to guess what