ad been
disturbed, she leaned her thin, rather long, gentle, but stubborn face on
her hand, thinking. These Gaunts were a source of irritation in the
parish, a kind of open sore. It would be better if they could be got rid
of before quarter day, up to which she had weakly said they might remain.
Far better for them to go at once, if it could be arranged. As for the
poor fellow Tryst, thinking that by plunging into sin he could improve
his lot and his poor children's, it was really criminal of those
Freelands to encourage him. She had refrained hitherto from seriously
worrying Gerald on such points of village policy--his hands were so full;
but he must now take his part. And she rang the bell.

"Tell Sir Gerald I'd like to see him, please, as soon as he gets back."

"Sir Gerald has just come in, my lady."

"Now, then!"

Gerald Malloring--an excellent fellow, as could be seen from his face of
strictly Norman architecture, with blue stained-glass windows rather deep
set in--had only one defect: he was not a poet. Not that this would have
seemed to him anything but an advantage, had he been aware of it. His
was one of those high-principled natures who hold that breadth is
synonymous with weakness. It may be said without exaggeration that the
few meetings of his life with those who had a touch of the poet in them
had been exquisitely uncomfortable. Silent, almost taciturn by nature,
he was a great reader of poetry, and seldom went to sleep without having
digested a page or two of Wordsworth, Milton, Tennyson, or Scott. Byron,
save such poems as 'Don Juan' or 'The Waltz,' he could but did not read,
for fear of setting a bad example. Burns, Shelley, and Keats he did not
care for. Browning pained him, except by such things as: 'How They
Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix' and the 'Cavalier Tunes'; while
of 'Omar Khayyam' and 'The Hound of Heaven' he definitely disapproved.
For Shakespeare he had no real liking, though he concealed this, from
humility in the face of accepted opinion. His was a firm mind, sure of
itself, but not self-assertive. His points were so good, and he had so
many of them, that it was only when he met any one touched with poetry
that his limitations became apparent; it was rare, however, and getting
more so every year, for him to have this unpleasant experience.

When summoned by his wife, he came in with a wrinkle between his straight
brows; he had just finished a morning's work on a