The general result indeed of his happy
placing in the world had been to make him indifferent to things that most
men desire. No merit in that! As he truly said, he had so much of them!
But he was proud of his health and strength--his shooting and the steady
lowering of his golf handicap. He was proud also of certain practical
aptitudes he possessed, and would soon allow no one to interfere with
him--hardly to advise him--in the management of his estate. He liked
nothing better than to plan the rebuilding of a farm, or a set of new
cottages. He was a fair architect, of a rough and ready sort, and a
decent thatcher and bricklayer. All the older workmen on the estate had
taught him something at one time or another; and of these various
handicrafts he was boyishly vain.
None of these qualifications, however, gave him the smallest confidence
in himself, with regard to Lydia Penfold. Ever since he had first met
her, he had realized in her the existence of standards just as free as
his own, only quite different. Other girls wished to be courted; or they
courted him. Miss Penfold gave no sign that she wished to be courted; and
she certainly had never courted anybody. Many pretty girls assert
themselves by a kind of calculated or rude audacity, as though to say
that gentleness and civility are not for the likes of them. Lydia was
always gentle--kind, at least--even when she laughed at you. Unless she
got upon her "ideas." Then--like Susan--she could harangue a little, and
grow vehement--as she had at Duddon that day, talking of the new
independence of women.
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