curious littleness of the lives of men and women
lived in this England of ours, made me feel as if I looked at them out of
a palace balcony-window; for no one appeared to hope very much or to
fear; people trotted in their different kinds of harness; and I was
amused to think of my heart going regularly in imitation of those about
me. I was in a princely state of mind indeed, not disinclined for a time
to follow the general course of life, while despising it. An existence
without colour, without anxious throbbing, without salient matter for
thought, challenged contempt. But it was exceedingly funny. My aunt
Dorothy, the squire, and Janet submitted to my transparent inward
laughter at them, patiently waiting for me to share their contentment, in
the deluded belief that the hour would come. The principal items of news
embraced the death of Squire Gregory Bulsted, the marriage of this and
that young lady, a legal contention between my grandfather and Lady Maria
Higginson, the wife of a rich manufacturer newly located among us, on
account of a right of encampment on Durstan heath, my grandfather taking
side with the gipsies, and beating her ladyship--a friend of Heriot's, by
the way. Concerning Heriot, my aunt Dorothy was in trouble. She could
not, she said, approve his behaviour in coming to this neighbourhood at
all, and she hinted that I might induce him to keep away. I mentioned
Julia Bulsted's being in mourning, merely to bring in her name
tentatively.

'Ay, mourning's her outer rig, never doubt,' said the squire. 'Flick your
whip at her, she 's a charitable soul, Judy Bulsted! She knits stockings
for the poor. She'd down and kiss the stump of a sailor on a stick o'
timber. All the same, she oughtn't to be alone. Pity she hasn't a baby.
You and I'll talk it over by-and-by, Harry.'

Kiomi was spoken of, and Lady Maria Higginson, and then Heriot.

'M-m-m-m rascal!' hummed the squire. 'There's three, and that's not
enough for him. Six months back a man comes over from Surreywards, a farm
he calls Dipwell, and asks after you, Harry; rigmaroles about a handsome
lass gone off . . . some scoundrel! You and I'll talk it over by-and-by,
Harry.'

Janet raised and let fall her eyebrows. The fiction, that so much having
been said, an immediate show of reserve on such topics preserved her in
ignorance of them, was one she subscribed to merely to humour the squire.
I was half in doubt whether I disliked or admired her want of dece