anything except the last of a long line of immovable squires who could not
possibly conceive what it was not to be the owner of land. His face was
preoccupied and overcast, but as soon as he realised that Miss Ingate was
on the stairs it instantly brightened into a warm and rather wistful smile.

"Good morning, Miss Ingate," he greeted her with deferential cordiality.
"I'm so glad to see you back."

"Good morning, good morning, Mr. Moze," responded Miss Ingate. "Vehy nice
of you. Vehy nice of you."

Nobody would have guessed from their demeanour that they differed on every
subject except their loyalty to that particular corner of Essex, that he
regarded her and her political associates as deadly microbes in the
national organism, and that she regarded him as a nincompoop crossed with a
tyrant. Each of them had a magic glass to see in the other nothing but a
local Effendi and familiar guardian angel of Moze. Moreover, Mr. Moze's
public smile and public manner were irresistible--until he lost his temper.
He might have had friends by the score, had it not been for his deep
constitutional reserve--due partly to diffidence and partly to an immense
hidden conceit. Mr. Moze's existence was actuated, though he knew it not,
by the conviction that the historic traditions of England were committed to
his keeping. Hence the conceit, which was that of a soul secretly
self-dedicated.

Audrey, outraged by the hateful hypocrisy of persons over fifty, and
terribly constrained and alarmed, turned vaguely back up the stairs. Miss
Ingate, not quite knowing what she did, with an equal vagueness followed
her.