Nettie Crook came in at the same moment Lenox sat down. She was a plain girl but with a healthy look about her, and he was surprised she remained unmarried. She could not be below twenty-five years of age. It was entirely proper for them to be alone together-she was evidently the woman of the house-but Lenox rather wished her uncle had been there to introduce them.

“How do you do, Mr. Lenox? I’m so pleased you could come.”

“Thank you, thank you, Miss Crook. I was pleased to receive your invitation.”

“How do you find Stirrington, if I may ask?”

“Altogether charming, Miss Crook. I would have preferred to view it at a more leisurely pace, but it has been pleasant nonetheless.”

“My uncle will arrive downstairs in only a moment or two.”

Lenox nodded graciously. Here was an odd situation, he thought; although he gazed on the strictures of class with a more critical eye than many he knew, it was plain that two people of very different rank were about to dine together. He liked Crook, liked Nettie, too, for that matter, but he hoped it wouldn’t be awkward.

In fact, it was not. To Lenox’s shock, the glum, agile proprietor of the pub, the shrewd political leader, was at home as soft as warm butter. The reason was Nettie.

“Have you observed my niece’s watercolors?” was the first thing he asked Lenox after they exchanged civilities.

It was extraordinary. The man’s face, which in the bar was screwed into an impassive and calculating glare, was now softened by emotion. He looked his age.

“I have,” said Lenox, “and cannot recall a more interesting view of that famous clock tower that I’ve seen in all my brief time here.”

“Tell him about the clock tower, dear heart,” said Crook with great complacency.