Granger's new estate--had
rejoiced that they were not as the Ardenites; that they could revel in
warmth and dirt, and eat liver-and-bacon for supper on a Saturday night,
without any fear of being lectured for their extravagance by the omniscient
Sophia on the following Monday, convicted of their guilt by the evidence of
the grease in an unwashed frying-pan; that their children could sport on
the hillside in garments that were guiltless of strings; that, in short,
they were outside the circle of Miss Granger's sympathies and could live
their own lives. But that sweet liberty was all over now: with the red
brick and stone dressings would come the Draconian laws of New Arden; no
more corners for the comfortable accumulation of dirt, no more delicious
little cupboards for the stowing away of rubbish. Everything was to be
square and solid and stony. They heard Mr. Granger giving orders that the
chimney was to be flush with the wall, and so on; the stove, an "Oxford
front," warranted to hold not more than a pound and a half of coal; no
recesses in which old age could sit and croon, no cosy nook for the cradle
of infancy.
After this interview with the architect, Mr. Granger rode home through
Holborough. His way took him past that very hotel where George Fairfax was
staying--the chief inn of the town, a fine old red-brick building that
filled nearly one side of the market-place.
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