But that didn’t count any more. The vast plumes of smoke and vapour rose from the new works up above, and this was now Stacks Gate: no chapels, no pubs, even no shops. Only the great “works,” which are the modern Olympia with temples to all the gods; then the model dwellings: then the hotel. The hotel in actuality was nothing but a miner’s pub, though it looked first-classy.

Even since Connie’s arrival at Wragby this new place had arisen on the face of the earth, and the model dwellings had filled with riffraff drifting in from anywhere, to poach Clifford’s rabbits among other occupations.

The car ran on along the uplands, seeing the rolling country spread out. The country! It had once been a proud and lordly country. In front, looming again and hanging on the brow of the skyline, was the huge and splendid bulk of Chadwick Hall, more window than wall, one of the most famous Elizabethan houses. Noble it stood alone above a great park, but out of date, passed over. It was still kept up, but as a show place. “Look how our ancestors lorded it!”