"By-the-bye, is that
wonderful person still in Polterham?"
"Oh yes!" Mrs. Liversedge replied. "She has been very prominent
lately."
"How?"
The lady glanced at her husband, who said quietly, "We'll talk over
it some other time."
But Tom was not to be repressed.
"Mother means that Revivalist business," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Wade
went against it."
"My boy, no meddling with things of that kind," said his father,
smiling, but firm. He turned to Denzil. "Has Glazzard exhibited
anything lately?"
"No; he gave up his modelling, and he doesn't seem to paint much
nowadays. The poor fellow has no object in life, that's the worst of
it."
The meal was nearly at an end, and presently the two men found
themselves alone at the table. Mr. Liversedge generally smoked a
cigar before returning for an hour or two to the soap-works.
"Any more wine?" he asked. "Then come into my snuggery and let us
chat."
They repaired to a room of very homely appearance. The furniture was
old and ugly; the carpet seemed to have been beaten so often that it
was growing threadbare by force of purification. There was a fair
collection of books, none of very recent date, and on the walls
several maps and prints. The most striking object was a great
stuffed bird that stood in a glass-case before the window--a
capercailzie shot by Quarrier long ago in Norway, and presented to
his brother-in-law.
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