Conventional wrong doing, he had satisfied
himself, was not wrong-doing at all, unless discovered. He injured
no one. The society of such a person as Lilian could be nothing but
an advantage to man, woman, and child. Only the sublimation of
imbecile prejudice would maintain that she was an unfit companion
for the purest creature living. He had even ceased to smile at the
success of his stratagem. It was over and done with; their social
standing was unassailable.
Anxious to complete his book on the Vikings, he worked at it for
several hours each morning; it would be off his hands some time in
February, and the spring publishing season should send it forth to
the world. The rest of his leisure was given to politics. Chests of
volumes were arriving from London, and his library shelves began to
make a respectable appearance; as a matter of principle, he bought
largely from the local bookseller, who rejoiced at the sudden fillip
to his stagnant trade, and went about declaring that Mr. Denzil
Quarrier was evidently _the_ man for the borough.
He fell upon history, economics, social speculation, with
characteristic vigour. If he got into the House of Commons, those
worthies should speedily be aware of his existence among them. It
was one of his favourite boasts that whatever subject he choose to
tackle, he could master. No smattering for him; a solid foundation
of knowledge, such as would ensure authority to his lightest
utterances.
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