they had one son.
And Mirren's son is now Sir John Banks, a baronet and an M.P. Tuts, the
thing's ridiculous.... Not that there's anything wrong with the man.
He's a soft-tongued, stuffed-looking butler-like creature, with a lot of
that low cunning that is known as business instinct, but he was good to
his mother. He didn't marry till she died, and she kept house for him in
his grand new house--the dear soul with her caps and her broad
south-country accent. She managed wonderfully, for she had great natural
dignity, and aped nothing. It was the butler killed her. She could cope
with the women servants, but when Sir John felt that his dignity
required a butler she gave it up. I dare say she was glad enough to
go.... 'Eh, mem, I am effrontit,' she used to say to me if I went in and
found her spotless kitchen disarranged, and I thought of her to-day when
I saw those silly little painted faces, and was glad she had been spared
the sight of her descendants.... But what am I raging about? What does
it matter to me, when all's said? Let the lassies dress up as long as
they have the heart; they'll have long years to learn sense if they're
spared.... Miss Reston, did you ever see anything bonnier than Tweed and
Hopetoun Woods? Jean, my dear, Lewis Elliot brought me a book last night
which really delighted me. Poems by Violet Jacob. If anyone could do for
Tweeddale what she has done for Angus I would be glad...."

"You care for poetry, Miss Reston? In Priorsford it's considered rather
a slur on your character to care for poetry. Novels we may discuss,
sensible people read novels, even now and again essays or biography, but
poetry--there we have to dissemble. We pretend, don't we, Jean?--that
poetry is nothing to us. Never a quotation or an allusion escapes us. We
listen to tales of servants' misdeeds, we talk of clothes and the
ongoings of our neighbours, and we never let on that we would rather
talk of poetry. No. No. A daft-like thing for either an old woman or a
young one to speak of. Only when we are alone--Jean and Augusta and
Lewis Elliot and I--we 'tire the sun with talking and send it down the
sky.' ... Miss Reston, Lewis Elliot tells me he knew you very well at
one time."

"Yes, away at the beginning of things. I adored him when I was fifteen
and he was twenty. He was wonderfully good to me and Biddy--my brother.
It is delightful to find an old friend in a new place."

"I'm very fond of Lewis," said Mrs. Hope, "but I w