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The origin of the tear on the aged cheek of Mr Shushions went back about forty years, and was embedded in the infancy of Darius Clayhanger.
For several days the town of Bursley was to Hilda simply a place made perilous and redoubtable by the apprehension of meeting Edwin Clayhanger accidentally in the streets thereof. And the burden of her meditations was: "What can he have thought of me?" She had said nothing to anybody of the deliberately-sought adventure in the garden.
Darius Clayhanger had been nervous as to the manner in which the boy would acquit himself in the bit of business which had been confided to him. It was the boy's first bit of business. Straightforward as it was, the boy might muddle it, might omit a portion of it, might say the wrong thing, might forget. Darius hoped for the best, but he was afraid. He saw in his son an amiable irresponsible fool.
A common sight in the sitting-room was Mr Clayhanger balanced on a chair, the table having been pushed away, screwing the newest burner into the chandelier.
Each gesture of Janet's showed seductive grace, while her own rare gestures were stiffened by a kind of masculine harshness. Every time that the sad-eyed and modest Edwin Clayhanger glanced at Janet, and included herself in the glance, she fancied that he was unjustly but inevitably misprising herself. And at length she thought: "Why did I make Janet promise that I shouldn't be talked about?
He was going to do several feats at once: tackle his father, develop into a right expert on some subject, pursue his painting, and for the moment this had the chief importance `come out of his shell. He meant to be social, to impress himself on others, to move about, to form connections, to be Edwin Clayhanger, an individuality in the town, to live. Why had he refused Janet's invitation?
"Steady on!" he protested uncouthly. And then, with the most naïve ingenuousness: "Mrs. Orgreave better?" But Osmond Orgreave was not in a merciful mood. A moment later he was saying: "Has she told you she wants to go over a printing-works?" "No," Clayhanger answered, with interest. "But I shall be very pleased to show her over ours, any time."
Charlie Orgreave had won his bet: and Edwin Clayhanger was among those young men who had remained behind in the drawing-room to exchange, according to the practice of young men, ideas upon life and the world. Hilda had been introduced to him, but owing to the performance of another Beethoven symphony there had been almost no conversation before supper, and she had not heard him talk.
"Is Mr Clayhanger in?" she demanded, as if wishful to help him in the formulation of his idea, and she added: "Or Mr Edwin?" Deliciously persuasive! The wooden structure was a lair. It had been constructed to hold Darius Clayhanger; but in practice it generally held Edwin, as his father's schemes for the enlargement of the business carried him abroad more and more.
Mr Clayhanger searched in a pocket of his alpaca, and drew forth an open envelope. "Here's the lad's report, auntie," said he. "Happen ye'd like to look at it." "I should indeed!" she replied fervently. "I'm sure it's a very good one." She took the paper, and assumed her spectacles. "Conduct Excellent," she read, poring with enthusiasm over the document. And she read again: "Conduct Excellent."
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