THE MOAT HOUSE
You thought you knew me in and out
And yet you never knew
That all I ever thought about
Was you.
Sedgehill High Street is nothing but a part of the great high road which
leads from Silverhampton to Studley and Slipton and the other towns of
the Black Country; but it calls itself Sedgehill High Street as it
passes through the place, and so identifies itself with its environment,
after the manner of caterpillars and polar bears and other similarly
wise and adaptable beings. At the point where this road adopts the
pseudonym of the High Street, close by Sedgehill Church, a lane branches
off from it at right angles, and runs down a steep slope until it comes
to a place where it evidently experiences a difference of opinion as to
which is the better course to pursue--an experience not confined to
lanes. But in this respect lanes are happier than men and women, in that
they are able to pursue both courses, and so learn for themselves which
is the wiser one, as is the case with this particular lane. One course
leads headlong down another steep hill--so steep that unwary travellers
usually descend from their carriages to walk up or down it, and thus
are enabled to ensure relief to their horses and a chill to themselves
at the same time; for it is hot work walking up or down that sunny
precipice, and the cold winds of Mershire await one with equal gusto at
the top and at the bottom. At the foot of the hill stretches a breezy
common, wide enough to make one think "long, long thoughts"; and if the
traveller looks backward when he has crossed this common, he will see
Sedgehill Church, crowning and commanding the vast expanse, and pointing
heavenward with its slender spire to remind him, and all other wayfaring
men, that the beauty and glory of this present world is only an earnest
and a foretaste of something infinitely fairer.
The second course of the irresolute lane is less adventurous, and
wanders peacefully through Badgering Woods, a dark and delightful spot,
once mysterious enough to be a fitting hiding-place for the age-long
slumbers of some sleeping princess. As a matter of fact, so it was; the
princess was black but comely, and her name was Coal. There she had
slept for a century of centuries, until Prince Iron needed and sought
and found her, and awakened her with the noise of his kisses. So now the
wood is not asleep any more, but is filled with the tramping of the
prince's men. The old people wring their hands and mourn that the former
things are passing away, and that Mershire's youthful beauty will soon
be forgotten; but the young people laugh and are glad, because they know
that life is greater than beauty, and that it is by her black
coalfields, and not by her green woodlands, that Mershire will save her
people from poverty, and will satisfy her poor with bread.
When Elisabeth Farringdon was a girl, the princess was still asleep in
the heart of the wood, and no prince had yet attempted to disturb her;
and the lane passed through a forest of silence until it came to a dear
little brown stream, which, by means of a dam, was turned into a moat,
encircling one of the most ancient houses in England. The Moat House had
been vacant for some time, as the owner was a delicate man who preferred
to live abroad; and great was the interest at Sedgehill when, a year or
two after Elisabeth left school, it was reported that a stranger, Alan
Tremaine by name, had taken the Moat House for the sake of the hunting,
which was very good in that part of Mershire.
So Alan settled there, and became one of the items which went to the
making of Elisabeth's world. He was a small, slight man,
interesting-looking rather than regularly handsome, of about
five-and-twenty, who had devoted himself to the cultivation of his
intellect and the suppression of his soul. Because his mother had been a
religious woman, he reasoned that faith was merely an amiable feminine
weakness, and because he himself was clever enough to make passable
Latin verses, he argued that no Supernatural Being could have been
clever enough to make him.
"Have you seen the new man who has come to the Moat House?" asked
Elisabeth of Christopher. The latter had now settled down permanently at
the Osierfield, and was qualifying himself to take his uncle's place as
general manager of the works, when that uncle should retire from the
post. He was also qualifying himself to be Elisabeth's friend instead of
her lover--a far more difficult task.
"Yes; I have seen him."
"What is he like? I am dying to know."
"When I saw him he was exactly like a man riding on horseback; but as he
was obviously too well-dressed to be a beggar, I have no reason to
believe that the direction in which he was riding was the one which
beggars on horseback are proverbially expected to take."
"How silly you are! You know what I mean."
"Perfectly. You mean that if you had seen a man riding by, at the rate
of twelve miles an hour, it would at once have formed an opinion as to
all the workings of his mind and the meditations of his heart. But my
impressions are of slower growth, and I am even dull enough to require
some foundation for them." Christopher loved to tease Elisabeth.
"I am awfully quick in reading character," remarked that young lady,
with some pride.
"You are. I never know which impresses me more--the rapidity with which
you form opinions, or their inaccuracy when formed."
"I'm not as stupid as you think."
"Pardon me, I don't think you are at all stupid; but I am always hoping
that the experience of life will make you a little stupider."
"Don't be a goose, but tell me all you know about Mr. Tremaine."
"I don't know much about him, except that he is well-off, that he
apparently rides about ten stone, and that he is not what people call
orthodox. By the way. I didn't discover his unorthodoxy by seeing him
ride by, as you would have done; I was told about it by some people who
know him."
"How very interesting!" cried Elisabeth enthusiastically. "I wonder how
unorthodox he is. Do you think he doesn't believe in anything?"
"In himself, I fancy. Even the baldest creed is usually self-embracing.
But I believe he indulges in the not unfashionable luxury of doubts.
You might attend to them, Elisabeth; you are the sort of girl who would
enjoy attending to doubts."
"I suppose I really am too fond of arguing."
"There you misjudge yourself. You are instructive rather than
argumentative. Saying the same thing over and over again in different
language is not arguing, you know; I should rather call it preaching, if
I were not afraid of hurting your feelings."
"You are a very rude boy! But, anyway, I have taught you a lot of
things; you can't deny that."
"I don't wish to deny it; I am your eternal debtor. To tell the truth, I
believe you have taught me everything I know, that is worth knowing,
except the things that you have tried to teach me. There, I must
confess, you have signally failed."
"What have I tried to teach you?"
"Heaps of things: that pleasure is more important than duty; that we are
sent into the world to enjoy ourselves; that the worship of art is the
only soul-satisfying form of faith; that conscience is an exhausted
force; that feelings and emotions ought to be labelled and scheduled;
that lobster is digestible; that Miss Herbert is the most attractive
woman in the world; etcetera, etcetera."
"And what have I taught you without trying?"
"Ah! that is a large order; and it is remarkable that the things you
have taught me are just the things that you have never learned
yourself."
"Then I couldn't have taught them."
"But you did; that is where your genius comes in."
"I really am tremendously quick in judging character," repeated
Elisabeth thoughtfully; "if I met you for the first time I should know
in five minutes that you were a man with plenty of head, and heaps of
soul, and very little heart."
"That would show wonderful penetration on your part."
"You may laugh, but I should. Of course, as it is, it is not
particularly clever of me to understand you thoroughly; I have known you
so long."
"Exactly; it would only be distinctly careless of you if you did not."
"Of course it would; but I do. I could draw a map of your mind with my
eyes shut, I know it so well."
"I wish you would. I should value it even if it were drawn with your
eyes open, though possibly in that case it might be less correct."
"I will, if you will give me a pencil and a sheet of paper."
Christopher produced a pencil, and tore a half-sheet off a note that he
had in his pocket. The two were walking through the wood at the Willows
at that moment, and Elisabeth straightway sat down upon a felled tree
that happened to be lying there, and began to draw.
The young man watched her with amusement. "An extensive outline," he
remarked; "this is gratifying."
"Oh yes! you have plenty of mind, such as it is; nobody could deny
that."
"But why is the coast-line all irregular, with such a lot of bays and
capes and headlands?"
"To show that you are an undecided person, and given to split hairs, and
don't always know your own opinion. First you think you'll do a thing
because it is nice; and then you think you won't do it because it is
wrong; and in the end you drop between two stools, like Mahomet's
coffin."
"I see. And please what are the mountain-ranges that you are drawing
now?"
"These," replied Elisabeth, covering her map with herring-bones, "are
your scruples. Like all other mountain-ranges they hinder commerce, make
pleasure difficult, and render life generally rather uphill work."
"Don't I sound exactly as if I was taking a geography class?"
"Or conducting an Inquisition," added Christopher.
"I thought an Inquisition was a Spanish thing that hurt."
"So certain ignorant people say; but it was originally invented, I
believe, to eradicate error and to maintain truth."
"I am going on with my geography class, so don't interrupt. The rivers
in this map, which are marked by a few faint lines, are narrow and
shallow; they are only found near the coast, and never cross the
interior of the country at all. These represent your feelings."
"Very ingenious of you! And what is that enormous blotch right in the
middle of the country, which looks like London and its environs?"
"That is your conscience; its outlying suburbs cover nearly the whole
country, you will perceive. You will also notice that there are no
seaports on the coast of my map; that shows that you are self-contained,
and that you neither send exports to, nor receive imports from, the
hearts and minds of other people."
"What ever are those queer little castellated things round the coast
that you are drawing now?"
"Those are floating icebergs, to show that it is a cold country. There,
my map is finished," concluded Elisabeth, half closing her eyes and
contemplating her handiwork through her eyelashes; "and I consider it a
most successful sketch."
"It is certainly clever."
"And true, too."
Christopher's eyes twinkled. "Give it me," he said, stretching out his
hand; "but sign it with your name first. Not there," he added hastily,
as Elisabeth began writing a capital E in one corner; "right across the
middle."
Elisabeth looked up in surprise. "Right across the map itself, do you
mean?"
"Yes."
"But it is such a long name that it will cover the whole country."
"I know that."
"It will spoil it."
"I shouldn't be surprised; nevertheless, I always am in favour of
realism."
"I don't know where the realism comes in; but I am such an obliging
person that I will do what you want," said Elisabeth, writing her name
right across the half-sheet of paper, in her usual dashing style.
"Thank you," said Christopher, taking the paper from her; and he smiled
to himself as he saw that the name "Elisabeth Farringdon" covered the
whole of the imaginary continent from east to west. Elisabeth naturally
did not know that this was the only true image in her allegory; she was
as yet far too clever to perceive obvious things. As Chris said, it was
not when her eyes were open that she was most correct.
"I have seen Mr. Tremaine," said Elisabeth to him, a day or two after
this. "Cousin Maria left her card upon him, and he returned her call
yesterday and found us at home. I think he is perfectly delightful."
"You do, do you? I knew you would."
"Why?"
"Because, like the Athenians, you live to see or to hear some new
thing."
"It wasn't his newness that made me like him; I liked him because he was
so interesting. I do adore interesting people! I hadn't known him five
minutes before he began to talk about really deep things; and then I
felt I had known him for ages, he was so very understanding."
"Indeed," Christopher said drily.
"By the time we had finished tea he understood me better than you do
after all these years. I wonder if I shall get to like him better than I
like you?"
"I wonder, too." And he really did, with an amount of curiosity that was
positively painful.
"Of course," remarked Elisabeth thoughtfully, "I shall always like you,
because we have been friends so long, and you are overgrown with the
lichen of old memories and associations. But you are not very
interesting in the abstract, you see; you are nice and good, but you
have not heart enough to be really thrilling."
"Still, even if I had a heart, it is possible I might not always wear it
on my sleeve for Miss Elisabeth Farringdon to peck at."
"Oh yes, you would; you couldn't help it. If you tried to hide it I
should see through your disguises. I have X rays in my eyes."
"Have you? They must be a great convenience."
"Well, at any rate, they keep me from making mistakes," Elisabeth
confessed.
"That is fortunate for you. It is a mistake to make mistakes."
"I remember our Dear Lady at Fox How once saying," continued the girl,
"that nothing is so good for keeping women from making mistakes as a
sense of humour."
"I wonder if she was right?"
"She was always right; and in that as in everything else. Have you never
noticed that it is not the women with a sense of humour who make fools
of themselves? They know better than to call a thing romantic which is
really ridiculous."
"Possibly; but they are sometimes in danger of calling a thing
ridiculous which is really romantic; and that also is a mistake."
"I suppose it is. I wonder which is worse--to think ridiculous things
romantic, or romantic things ridiculous? It is rather an interesting
point. Which do you think?"
"I don't know. I never thought about it."
"You never do think about things that really matter," exclaimed
Elisabeth, with reproof in her voice; "that is what makes you so
uninteresting to talk to. The fact is you are so wrapped up in that
tiresome old business that you never have time to attend to the deeper
things and the hidden meanings of life; but are growing into a regular
money-grubber."
"Perhaps so; but you will have the justice to admit it isn't my own
money that I am grubbing," replied Christopher, who had only reconciled
himself to giving up all his youthful ambitions and becoming
sub-manager of the Osierfield by the thought that he might thereby in
some roundabout way serve Elisabeth. Like other schoolboys he had
dreamed his dreams, and prospected wonderful roads to success which his
feet were destined never to tread; and at first he had asked something
more of life than the Osierfield was capable of offering him. But
finally he had submitted contentedly to the inevitable, because--in
spite of all his hopes and ambitions--his boyish love for Elisabeth held
him fast; and now his manly love for Elisabeth held him faster still.
But even the chains which love had rivetted are capable of galling us
sometimes; and although we would not break them, even if we could, we
grumble at them occasionally--that is to say, if we are merely human, as
is the case with so many of us.
"It is a great pity," Elisabeth went on, "that you deliberately narrow
yourself down to such a small world and such petty interests. It is bad
enough for old people to be practical and sensible and commonplace and
all that; but for a man as young as you are it is simply disgusting. I
can not understand you, because you really are clever and ought to know
better; but although I am your greatest friend, you never talk to me
about anything except the merest frivolities."
Christopher bowed his head to the storm and was still--he was one of the
people who early learn the power of silence; but Elisabeth, having once
mounted her high horse, dug her spurs into her steed and rode on to
victory. In those days she was so dreadfully sure of herself that she
felt competent to teach anybody anything.
"You laugh at me as long as I am funny and I amuse you; but the minute
I begin to talk about serious subjects--such as feelings and sentiments
and emotions--you lose your interest at once, and turn everything into a
joke. The truth is, you have so persistently suppressed your higher self
that it is dying of inanition; you'll soon have no higher self left at
all. If people don't use their hearts they don't have any, like the
Kentucky fish that can't see in the dark because they are blind, don't
you know? Now you should take a leaf out of Mr. Tremaine's book. The
first minute I saw him I knew that he was the sort of man that
cultivated his higher self; he was interested in just the things that
interest me."
The preacher paused for breath, and looked up to see whether her sermon
was being "blessed" to her hearer; then suddenly her voice changed--
"What is the matter, Chris?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"Because you look so awfully white. I was talking so fast that I didn't
notice it; but I expect it is the heat. Do sit down on the grass and
rest a bit; it is quite dry; and I'll fan you with a big dock leaf."
"I'm all right," replied Christopher, trying to laugh, and succeeding
but indifferently.
"But I'm sure you are not, you are so pale; you look just as you looked
the day that I tumbled off the rick--do you remember it?--and you took
me into Mrs. Bateson's to have my head bound up. She said you'd got a
touch of the sun, and I'm afraid you've got one now."
"Yes, I remember it well enough; but I'm all right now, Betty. Don't
worry about me."
"But I do worry when you're ill; I always did. Don't you remember that
when you had measles and I wasn't allowed to see you, I cried myself to
sleep for three nights running, because I thought you were going to
die, and that everything would be vile without you? And then I had a
prayer-meeting about you in Mrs. Bateson's parlour, and I wrote the
hymns for it myself. The Batesons wept over them and considered them
inspired, and foretold that I should die early in consequence." And
Elisabeth laughed at the remembrance of her fame.
Christopher laughed too. "That was hard on you! I admit that
verse-writing is a crime in a woman, but I should hardly call it a
capital offence. Still, I should like to have heard the hymns. You were
great at writing poetry in those days."
"Wasn't I? And I used to be so proud when you said that my poems weren't
'half bad'!"
"No wonder; that was high praise from me. But can't you recall those
hymns?"
The hymnist puckered her forehead. "I can remember the beginning of the
opening one," she said; "it was a six-line-eights, and we sang it to a
tune called Stella; it began thus:
"How can we sing like little birds,
And hop about among the boughs?
How can we gambol with the herds,
Or chew the cud among the cows?
How can we pop with all the weasles
Now Christopher has got the measles?"
"Bravo!" exclaimed the subject of the hymn. "You are a born hymn-writer,
Elisabeth. The shades of Charles Wesley and Dr. Watts bow to your
obvious superiority."
"Well, at any rate, I don't believe they ever did better at fourteen;
and it shows how anxious I was about you even then when you were ill. I
am just the same now--quite as fond of you as I was then; and you are
of me, too, aren't you?"
"Quite." Which was perfectly true.
"Then that's all right," said Elisabeth contentedly; "and, you see, it
is because I am so fond of you that I tell you of your faults. I think
you are so good that I want you to be quite perfect."
"I see."
The missionary spirit is an admirable thing; but a man rarely does it
full justice when it is displayed--toward himself--by the object of his
devotion.
"If I wasn't so fond of you I shouldn't try to improve you."
"Of course not; and if you were a little fonder of me you wouldn't want
to improve me. I perfectly understand."
"Dear old Chris! You really are extremely nice in some ways; and if you
had only a little more heart you would be adorable. And I don't believe
you are naturally unfeeling, do you?"
"No--I do not; but I sometimes wish I was."
"Don't say that. It is only that you haven't developed that side of you
sufficiently; I feel sure the heart is there, but it is dormant. So now
you will talk more about feelings, won't you?"
"I won't promise that. It is rather stupid to talk about things that one
doesn't understand; I am sure this is correct, for I have often heard
you say so."
"But talking to me about your feelings might help you to understand
them, don't you see?"
"Or might help you."
"Oh! I don't want any help; feelings are among the few things that I can
understand without any assistance. But you are sure you are all right,
Chris, and haven't got a headache or anything?" And the anxious
expression returned to Elisabeth's face.
"My head is very well, thank you."
"You don't feel any pain?"
"In my head? distinctly not."
"You are quite well, you are certain?"
"Perfectly certain and quite well. What a fidget you are! Apparently you
attach as much importance to rosy cheeks as Mother Hankey does."
"A pale face and dark hair are in her eyes the infallible signs of a
depraved nature," laughed Elisabeth; "and I have both."
"Yet you fly at me for having one, and that only for a short time.
Considering your own shortcomings, you should be more charitable."
Elisabeth laughed again as she patted his arm in a sisterly fashion.
"Nice old boy! I am awfully glad you are all right. It would make me
miserable if anything went really wrong with you, Chris."
"Then nothing shall go really wrong with me, and you shall not be
miserable," said Christopher stoutly; "and, therefore, it is fortunate
that I don't possess much heart--things generally go wrong with the
people who have hearts, you know, and not with the people who have not;
so we perceive how wise was the poet in remarking that whatever is is
made after the best possible pattern, or words to that effect." With
which consoling remark he took leave of his liege-lady.
The friendship between Alan Tremaine and Elisabeth Farringdon grew apace
during the next twelve months. His mind was of the metaphysical and
speculative order, which is interesting to all women; and hers was of
the volatile and vivacious type which is attractive to some men. They
discussed everything under the sun, and some things over it; they read
the same books and compared notes afterward; they went out sketching
together, and instructed each other in the ways of art; and they
carefully examined the foundations of each other's beliefs, and
endeavoured respectively to strengthen and undermine the same. Gradually
they fell into the habit of wondering every morning whether or not they
should meet during the coming day; and of congratulating themselves
nearly every evening that they had succeeded in so meeting.
As for Christopher, he was extremely and increasingly unhappy, and, it
must be admitted, extremely and increasingly cross in consequence. The
fact that he had not the slightest right to control Elisabeth's actions,
in no way prevented him from highly disapproving of them; and the fact
that he was too proud to express this disapproval in words, in no way
prevented him from displaying it in manner. Elisabeth was wonderfully
amiable with him, considering how very cross he was; but are we not all
amiable with people toward whom we--in our inner consciousness--know
that we are behaving badly?
"I can not make out what you can see in that conceited ass?" he said to
her, when Alan Tremaine had been living at the Moat House for something
over a year.
"Perhaps not; making things out never is your strong point," replied
Elisabeth suavely.
"But he is such an ass! I'm sure the other evening, when he trotted out
his views on the Higher Criticism for your benefit, he made me feel
positively ill."
"I found it very interesting; and if, as you say, he did it for my
benefit, he certainly succeeded in his aim." There were limits to the
patience of Elisabeth.
"Well, how women can listen to bosh of that kind I can not imagine! What
can it matter to you what he disbelieves or why he disbelieves it? And
it is beastly cheek of him to suppose that it can."
"But he is right in supposing it, and it does matter to me. I like to
know how old-fashioned truths accord or do not accord with modern phases
of thought."
"Modern phases of nonsense, you mean! Well, the old-fashioned truths are
good enough for me, and I'll stick to them, if you please, in spite of
Mr. Tremaine's overwhelming arguments; and I should advise you to stick
to them, too."
"Oh! Chris, I wish you wouldn't be so disagreeable." And Elisabeth
sighed. "It is so difficult to talk to you when you are like this."
"I'm not disagreeable," replied Christopher mendaciously; "only I can
not let you be taken in by a stuck-up fool without trying to open your
eyes; I shouldn't be your friend if I could." And he actually believed
that this was the case. He forgot that it is not the trick of
friendship, but of love, to make "a corner" in affection, and to
monopolize the whole stock of the commodity.
"You see," Elisabeth explained, "I am so frightfully modern, and yet I
have been brought up in such a dreadfully old-fashioned way. It was all
very well for the last generation to accept revealed truth without
understanding it, but it won't do for us."
"Why not?"
"Oh! because we are young and modern."
"So were they at one time, and we shall not be so for long."
Elisabeth sighed again. "How difficult you are! Of course, the sort of
religion that did for Cousin Maria and Mr. Smallwood won't do for Mr.
Tremaine and me. Can't you see that?"
"I can not, I am sorry to say."
"Their religion had no connection with their intellects."
"Still, it changed their hearts, which I have heard is no unimportant
operation."
"They accepted what they were told without trying to understand it,"
Elisabeth continued, "which is not, after all, a high form of faith."
"Indeed. I should have imagined that it was the highest."
"But can't you see that to accept blindly what you are told is not half
so great as to sift it all, and to separate the chaff from the wheat,
and to find the kernel of truth in the shell of tradition?" Elisabeth
had not talked to Alan Tremaine for over a year without learning his
tricks of thought and even of expression. "Don't you think that it is
better to believe a little with the whole intellect than a great deal
apart from it?"
Christopher looked obstinate. "I can't and don't."
"Have you no respect for 'honest doubt'?"
"Honest bosh!"
Elisabeth's face flushed. "You really are too rude for anything."
Christopher was penitent at once; he could not bear really to vex her.
"I am sorry if I was rude; but it riles me to hear you quoting
Tremaine's platitudes by the yard--such rotten platitudes as they are,
too!"
"You don't do Mr. Tremaine justice, Chris. Even though he may have
outgrown the old faiths, he is a very good man; and he has such lovely
thoughts about truth and beauty and love and things like that."
"His thoughts are nothing but empty windbags; for he is the type of man
who is too ignorant to accept truth, too blind to appreciate beauty, and
too selfish to be capable of loving any woman as a woman ought to be
loved."
"I think his ideas about love are quite ideal," persisted the girl.
"Only yesterday he was abusing the selfishness of men in general, and
saying that a man who is really in love thinks of the woman he loves as
well as of himself."
"He said that, did he? Then he was mistaken."
Elisabeth looked surprised. "Then don't you agree with him that a man in
love thinks of the woman as well as of himself?"
"No; I don't. A man who is really in love never thinks of himself at
all, but only of the woman. It strikes me that Master Alan Tremaine
knows precious little about the matter."
"I think he knows a great deal. He said that love was the discovery of
the one woman whereof all other women were but types. That really was a
sweet thing to say!"
"My dear Betty, you know no more about the matter than he does. Falling
in love doesn't merely mean that a man has found a woman who is dearer
to him than all other women, but that he has found a woman who is dearer
to him than himself."
Elisabeth changed her ground. "I admit that he isn't what you might
call orthodox," she said--"not the sort of man who would clothe himself
in the rubric, tied on with red tape; but though he may not be a
Christian, as we count Christianity, he believes with all his heart in
an overruling Power which makes for righteousness."
"That is very generous of him," retorted Christopher; "still, I can not
for the life of me see that the possession of three or four thousand a
year, without the trouble of earning it, gives a man the right to
patronize the Almighty."
"You are frightfully narrow, Chris."
"I know I am, and I am thankful for it. I had rather be as narrow as a
plumbing-line than indulge in the sickly latitudinarianism that such men
as Tremaine nickname breadth."
"Oh! I am tired of arguing with you; you are too stupid for anything."
"But you haven't been arguing--you have only been quoting Tremaine
verbatim; and that that may be tiring I can well believe."
"Well, you can call it what you like; but by any other name it will
irritate you just as much, because you have such a horrid temper. Your
religion may be very orthodox, but I can not say much for its improving
qualities; it is the crossest, nastiest, narrowest, disagreeablest sort
of religion that I ever came across."
And Elisabeth walked away in high dudgeon, leaving Christopher very
angry with himself for having been disagreeable, and still angrier with
Tremaine for having been the reverse.