He was spoilt—deplorably, absurdly spoilt. But, so far, that was perhaps the worst that could fairly be said against him. There was genuine manliness still, some chivalry even, yet struggling spasmodically to make itself felt, and—what was practically, perhaps, of more account as a preservative—some small amount of originality in his character. He had still a good deal to learn, and something too to unlearn before he could take rank as past-master in the stupid worldliness of his class and time. For he was neither so blasé nor so cynical as he flattered himself, but young enough to affect being both to the extent of believing his own affectations real.
He was popular; his position and income were fair enough to have secured this to a considerable extent in these, socially speaking, easy-going days, even had he been without the further advantages of good looks and a certain arrogance, not to say insolence of bearing, which, though nothing can be acquired with greater facility and at less expenditure of brain tissue, appears to be the one not-to-be-disputed hall-mark of the period.
Why he went to Mrs Englewood’s reception that evening he could scarcely have told, or perhaps he would have vaguely shrunk from owning even to himself the real motives—of sincere though feeble loyalty to old associations, of faintly stirring gratitude for much kindness in the past—which had prompted the effort. For Mrs Englewood was neither very rich, nor very beautiful, nor—worst of “nors”—very fashionable; scarcely, indeed, to be reckoned as of notre monde in any very exclusive sense of the words, though kindly, and fairly refined, irreproachable as wife and mother, and so satisfied with her lot as to be uninterestingly free from social ambition.
But her house was commonplace, she herself not specially amusing.
“If she’d be content to ask me there when they’re alone—I like talking to her herself well enough,” thought Despard, as he dressed. In his heart, however, he knew that would not do. He was more or less of a lion from Mrs Englewood’s point of view; she was not above a certain pride in knowing that for “old sake’s sake” she could count upon him for her one party of the season. And for this, as she retained a real affection for the man she had known as that delightful thing—a bright, intelligent, and unspoilt boy, and as she thought of him still far more highly than he deserved to be thought of, her conscience left her unrebuked.
Year after year, it is true, her husband wet-blanketed her innocent pleasure in seeing the young man’s name on her invitation list.
“That fellow! In your place, my dear Gertrude!” and an expressive raising of the eyebrows said the rest.
“But, Harry,” she would mildly expostulate, “you forget. I knew him when he was—”
“So high—at Whipmore. Oh, yes; I know all about it. Well, well, take your way of it; it doesn’t hurt me if you invite people who don’t want to come.”
“But who always do come, you must allow,” she would reply triumphantly.
“And think themselves mighty condescending for doing so,” Mr Englewood put in.
“You don’t do Despard justice. It’s always the way with men, I suppose.”
“Come now, don’t be down upon me about it,” he would say good-naturedly. “I don’t stop your asking him. It isn’t as if we had daughters. In that case—” but the rest was left to the imagination.
And this particular year Mr