tay. It was no longer
necessary to make the best of things. From labouring in the trough of
oppression he had been swept into waters more smooth than any he had
dreamed of riding--a veritable lagoon of security and content.

At first, so long had he been mishandled by Fortune, that, like a cur
that has been accustomed to ill-treatment, he viewed her present bounty
with suspicion. Had she poured for him the wine of comfort to dash the
cup from his lips ere it was empty? That would be just like the jade.
He scanned the sky anxiously for a sign of the coming storm, and,
finding it cloudless, saw in this calm some new miracle of treachery,
and feared the worst. He was afraid, selfishly, for Mr. Bumble's
health. The man was pink and well nourished. Anthony thought of
apoplexy, and, had a medical book been available, would have sought a
description of that malady's favourite prey. Mrs. Bumble was also well
covered. Anthony hoped that her heart was sound. On these two lives
hung all his happiness. He reflected that motoring was not unattended
by peril, and the idea stayed with him for half a day. Had he not been
ashamed, he would have laid the facts before George and besought him to
drive carefully....

As the days, however, went placidly by and brought no evil, the smoking
flax of his faith began to kindle, and his suspicions to wilt. His
mind shook off its sickness and began to mend rapidly. Very soon it
was as sound as a bell.

His temporary lapse from grace, above related, was so innocuous that it
need not be counted to his discredit. His was the case of the pugilist
who slipped on a piece of peel and felt unable to rise: had the place
been a ring, instead of a pavement, he would have been up and dancing
within ten seconds. So with Anthony--had Fortune frowned, he would
have laughed in her face. It was her smile that made him cower. And,
so long as she smiled, what mattered it if he cowered? Had Homer never
nodded, gentlemen, till it was past his bed-time, neither you nor I
would ever have heard of it.

If Betty had indeed affirmed that the housework to be done at The
Shrubbery was nothing, she was guilty of hyperbole. All the same, the
house was an easy one, and such labour as its upkeep entailed melted,
beneath the perfectly organized attention of herself, Anne, and
Lyveden, as snow beneath the midday sun. The three had more legitimate
leisure than any three servants in England, and no residence