Enough that the seed was in him.

He chafed on his road to Raynham at the scene he had just endured, and the figure of Belthorpe's fat tenant burnt like hot copper on the tablet of his brain, insufferably condescending, and, what was worse, in the right.

Richard, obscured as his mind's eye was by wounded pride, saw that clearly, and hated his enemy for it the more.
Heavy Benson's tongue was knelling dinner as Richard arrived at the Abbey.

He hurried up to his room to dress.

Accident, or design, had laid the book of Sir Austin's aphorisms open on the dressing-table.