Faversham, even more than Brand, had avenged them all. The generous,
pugnacious youth was ready to take Faversham to his heart.
And yet, not without uneasiness, some dread of reaction in himself,
if--by chance--they were all mistaken in their man! Neither Boden, nor
Undershaw, nor he had any definite idea of the conclusions to which
Faversham had come. He had not had a word to say to them on that head;
although, during these ghastly weeks, when they had acted as buffers
between him and an enraged populace, relations of intimacy had clearly
grown up between him and Boden, and both Undershaw and Tatham had been
increasingly conscious of liking, even respect, for a much-abused man.
Oh, it was--it would be--all right! Lydia would see to it!
Lydia! What a letter that was the post had brought him--what a letter,
and what a woman! He sighed, thinking with a rueful though satiric spirit
of all those protestations of hers in the summer, as to independence,
a maiden life, and the rest. And now she confessed that, from the
beginning, it had been Faversham. Why? What had she seen in him? The
young man's vanity no less than his love had been sore smitten. But the
pain was passing. And she was, and would always be, a dear woman, to whom
he was devoted.
He had pushed aside his letters, and was pacing his library. Presently he
turned and went into a small inner room, his own particular den, where he
kept his college photographs, some stuffed and now decaying beasts,
victims of his earliest sport, and many boxes of superb toy soldiers, the
passion of his childhood.
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