‘We’d better go in the back way, I think,’ observed George, tapping at the window of the cab as he spoke and giving the order.

Sarah laughed, as she spread her hands out before her and surveyed them. ‘Perhaps it would be as well, for peace’ sake,’ she remarked.

They were just getting out of the cab at the little back-door leading into the stable-yard behind the house, when, to their dismay, they saw Mr Mark Clay’s burly figure come with swaggering walk along the little path through the park towards the same door, probably coming to give some order, or more probably, his children thought, to make himself disagreeable to his stablemen and chauffeurs.

‘Quick! in with you; there’s the pater!’ cried George, who, polite as usual, was holding the cab-door open for his sister.

Sarah needed no second bidding; but, instinctively clutching the front breadth of her skirt in her hands to conceal the stains, she jumped out, ran in at the little gate, and into the house, up to her room by the back-stairs.

George paid the man, who touched his hat and drove off quickly, and the young man noticed that he passed the owner of the park through which he was driving without any greeting at all. George turned to meet his father.

The tall, slim young man, with his refined features, looked a fit heir to the fine home, with its vast park; but a greater contrast to the coarse man who came towards him could not be imagined. He raised his hat to his father, and greeted him pleasantly enough. No one had ever heard George Clay speak otherwise than respectfully to or of his father, in which he compared favourably with Sarah; but if he could civilly do so he avoided his company, and, if the truth be known, he only spent his vacations at home for the sake of his mother and sister. On this occasion he could not with politeness avoid meeting him, and did so with a good grace.

‘Mornin’, lad! Where t’ been?’ inquired Mark Clay, as he gave his son a nod.

‘Down to Ousebank, father. It’s hot, isn’t it?’

’Yes, it’s fine and hot. Where’s Sarah? Why didn’t she stop and say good-mornin’ to her dad? I’m not fine enough for her. I’m only good to make money, eh?’

’On the contrary, it was Sarah who was not fine enough to meet you. She stained her hands, and was running off to wash them,’ said George.

’Stained her hands! What did she stain her hands for? I won’t have her pretty hands soiled; there’s no call for her ever to do aught with them but fancy work.’

‘Sarah isn’t fond of fancy work,’ observed George, avoiding a direct answer.

‘I don’t know what she is fond of, without it’s cheekin’ me. What do you think she said yesterday? That I was no better than a murderer because I didn’t pay a man his high wages when he got too old to work. A nice thing it would be if I had to keep all my sick workmen in luxury, and pay some one else for doing their work. It wasn’t by such means that I built this house, I can tell ‘e.’ Mark Clay spoke broader Yorkshire than many of his men, and even he could speak, and did speak, better English when he chose; in fact, it was only when he was annoyed or angry that he broke out into dialect.

Sarah ran to her room and plunged her hands into hot water, but, as might have been expected, without any effect; and when the lunch-gong sounded they were still far too brilliant to bear her father’s scrutiny. So she rang for Naomi, and said, ’Just tell Sykes to send up some lunch to me, Naomi; and if any one asks where I am, tell them I am very busy. So I am, cleaning my hands; though you needn’t tell them that.’

Naomi went off to do her young mistress’s bidding, but came back in ten minutes looking very grave, and said, ’Please, Miss Sarah, the master says as ’ow it don’t matter about your hands, and you can go down to lunch with them as they are.’

Sarah stamped her foot with vexation. ’I told you not to say anything about my hands, Naomi.’

’No more I didn’t; but the master knew, for he told Mr Sykes to give me that message for you. And please, miss, excuse me saying so, but Sykes he said, “Try and make Miss Sarah come down, for master he gets into such a taking if he’s crossed;” and Sykes he says’

‘Never mind what Sykes said. Get me out my pink muslin,’ said Sarah shortly, with her most haughty air, and Naomi obeyed in silence.

Sarah’s frock was not pinker than her face when she got to the dining-room.

’So you’ve been to Howroyd’s Mill messing with his dyes, have you? What do you want to go there for when you could come to mine, eh? What did you go to him for, and what did he say?’ her father asked suspiciously.

’Nothing very interesting; at least I don’t remember anything. Oh yes; he said hands weren’t money-making machines, but human souls which had to be cared for,’ replied Sarah.

‘I don’t mean that kind of talk. Did he talk business, eh?’ inquired Mr Clay.

‘Oh dear no; he never does to me,’ she answered.

‘Not been croaking, has he?’ the millionaire asked with hidden anxiety.

This time it was George who spoke, inquiring, ’Is there anything to croak about, then?’

‘I want an answer to my question, and, by gad, I’ll have it!’ exclaimed his father, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash.

’No; he was very cheerful, as he always is. And now, sir, perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question,’ said George, who spoke very quietly but decidedly.

Sarah gave her brother an approving look.

’What question? Oh, whether there’s anything to croak about? Not in my opinion; but your uncle But there, it’s no good taking any notice of him. He’d build a palace for his hands to work in and live in, and stop in that old mill all his life, would Bill Howroyd,’ replied Mr Clay; and, frowning heavily, the millionaire got up from the table.

’I say, mother, would you mind if I went for a week’s shooting to Scotland?’ inquired her son.

‘No, dearie; no. You go; it’ll do you good. I suppose it’s some o’ your college friends as ‘ave asked you? Yes, you go; there’s nothin’ for you to do ‘ere,’ said the fond mother.

’And what about me? What am I to do if you go off and leave me all alone? I shall go melancholy mad in this hole of a place!’ cried Sarah.

‘’Olé! w’en it’s on the top o’ a ’ill! W’at silly nonsense you do talk, child! ‘Olé, indeed!’ said Mrs Clay.

’It is rather rough luck to leave you in your holidays; but Cockburn has asked me so often. Couldn’t you ask some one to stay with you one of your schoolfellows, perhaps?’ George suggested.

‘Nice, comfortable house this is to ask any one to stay in!’ said Sarah sarcastically.

‘It’s as comfortable as any o’ theirs, if it isn’t a great deal better,’ cried her mother.

‘I’d sooner live in Naomi’s home if I’d my choice,’ said Sarah gloomily.

‘Sarah is right in one way, mother,’ said George before Mrs Clay could say anything. ’It is not very comfortable to have constant disturbances in one’s home; and the governor is very easily angered.’

‘Yes, dear, I know,’ agreed Mrs Clay, who adored her son, and thought everything he did or said perfection. ‘An’ it’s ‘ard for you an’ Sarah, for you don’t understan’ your father, nor ain’t used to ’im as I am. But that’s not a bad idea o’ yours that Sarah should ask one o’ the young ladies at ‘er school to come an’ stay ’ere for a bit. There’s that Miss Cunning’am that you’ve got the photograph o’ in your room. She’s got a nice, ‘omely face.’

’She’s a duke’s granddaughter, whether her face is homely or not. No, I couldn’t ask her,’ declared Sarah.

‘Why not? She’d be the very one. Your father likes people o’ ’igh class, though ’e was only a mill-’and ‘isself. An’ she’s got such a nice smile on ‘er photo,’ persisted the mother.

’I couldn’t possibly ask her; she’d never come and stay with a manufacturer,’ declared Sarah again.

’I’d be bound she’d jump at it. She’d not get a better dinner at ’ome or anyw’ere, nor a better room to sleep in,’ said Mrs Clay.

This remark grated upon both her children, as so many of poor Mrs Clay’s sayings did; but George, tactful as usual, remarked, ’Suppose you write and ask Miss Cunningham, Sarah; and if she is too proud to visit a maker of blankets, why, she will refuse, and there will be the end of it; and if she accepts, it will show that her friendship for you is stronger than class prejudices.’

Sarah looked at her brother for a minute as if she wanted to say something, but did not do so, and only drummed with her crimson-dyed fingers on the white table-cloth, taking apparently great delight in their appearance.

‘Yes; you do as your brother tells you, instead of sittin’ there smilin’ at them dreadful ‘ands o’ yours. I’m sure they’re nothin’ to be proud o’. Now, if you lived in Howroyd’s Mill, w’ere your uncle Bill lives, you might be ashamed to ask the young lady to stay wi’ you; but ’ere it’s quite different,’ said Mrs Clay.

The brother and sister, it will have been noticed, always called their father’s step-brother Uncle Howroyd, whereas their mother and father called him Bill or ‘your uncle Bill.’ The fact was that the younger people did not like ‘Bill,’ and George said he was thankful for one thing, and that was that his name could not be shortened; while Sarah had made violent protests against being called Sally or Sal, and would not allow any one except her father, whom she could not control, to call her anything but Sarah; and, indeed, the latter name suited her best.

Sarah followed her brother into his smoking-den. ’Pshaw! What a stuffy room!’ she exclaimed, as she threw herself upon the cushioned window-seat.

’If it does not please you I fail to see why you have come into it; and as for being stuffy’ Instead of completing his sentence George shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say the accusation was too absurd to be argued about.

’It is stuffy, with all those cushions and carpets about, and pictures and gimcracks, for all its big windows. I can’t think how you like to stuff it up with all this rubbish,’ persisted Sarah.

‘This rubbish, as you call it, is worth a pretty penny,’ he remarked, lighting a cigarette.

’You’re as bad as father, counting everything by what it costs. But, I say, George, why did you go and suggest my inviting Horatia Cunningham to come and stay here? I don’t want her; and now you’ve started mother on it she’ll give me no peace till I do ask her, and very likely say something to father, and he’ll begin worrying about it, especially if he hears she’s a duke’s granddaughter. Besides, she wouldn’t come if I did ask her,’ Sarah remarked.

’In that case there’ll be no harm done if you do ask her. But I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t; she looks a very nice girl, and you are great friends, aren’t you? And what has her grandfather to do with it?’ asked George.

’At school we are; but whether we should be after she’d been up here isn’t so certain. And as for why I shouldn’t ask her, the reason is pretty plain father,’ replied Sarah.

‘You mean he might make himself unpleasant?’ suggested George.

’There’s no need for him to make himself; Nature has made him unpleasant,’ exclaimed Sarah.

’You need not see much of him. You can go for picnics or drives, and arrange to have lunch earlier or later; and you never breakfast and have tea with him, so it’s only at dinner-time that they will meet. I should not think he will get into a rage before a stranger, especially a young girl.’

Sarah seemed to be considering something, and suddenly she blurted out, ’It isn’t only that. I don’t want her to come here; can’t you see why not? They don’t know what my people are. Oh, they know we’re manufacturers; but that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of manufacturers are gentlemen, but we are not gentlefolks, and they they don’t guess it from me,’ she wound up half-shamefacedly.

’Then I wouldn’t sail under false colours. We are risen from the people, and our parents have not had the education they have been good enough to give us; but it would be contemptible to be ashamed of the fact or of them.’

’That’s very fine and high-flown; but I am ashamed of my father, at any rate. I’d rather not have Horatia Cunningham come here and laugh at my mother behind her back,’ said Sarah.

‘I should like to see any one dare to do that,’ said George, with an angrier look than his sister had ever seen him give.

’She wouldn’t mean it nastily; but it’s no good pretending that mother does not say the wrong thing sometimes,’ said Sarah.

‘The wrong thing has been sending you to that school,’ said George, his loyalty and love for his mother preventing his acknowledging the truth of this remark; and then he said more kindly, for he sympathised more with his sister than he chose to say, ’I don’t believe Miss Cunningham would be nasty in any way. I know her brother slightly at college, and he is “Hail, fellow! well met,” with every chap he meets. You take my advice, and write and ask her to come here. You can tell her, if you like, that well, that we are nouveaux riches, and have no pretensions of being gentlefolks; but that she will have a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and that’s not a thing to be despised, let me tell you. Here, sit down and write the letter at once. I shall enjoy myself much more in Scotland if I know you have a companion.’

‘I shouldn’t mind so much if you were going to be at home,’ said Sarah, only half-won over.

George ignored the implied compliment, and said, ’You will get on much better alone. Sit down and write the invitation here. I’ll help you.’

‘No, thank you; I’d rather write my own way,’ remarked Sarah, as she rose from the window-seat. When she got to the door, she turned back to say, ’I have a presentiment that she’ll accept, and it will be all your fault, remember. Whatever the consequences, they will be on your head.’

George only laughed, and sat down himself to accept his shooting invitation.