They were glad to make their young neighbour's acquaintance, and looked forward that day year to welcoming him to his own.

They hoped he'd be a credit to his name, and keep up the traditions of Maxfield.

He understood Mr Ingleton was pretty strictly tied up in the matter of guardians--( laughter)--but from what he could see, he might be worse off in that respect; and the county would owe their thanks to those gentlemen if they turned out among them the right sort of man to be Squire of Maxfield.

He wished his young friend joy and long life and many happy returns of the day.
Roger, rather pale and nervous, replied very briefly.
He thanked them for their good wishes, and said he hoped he might take these as given not to the heir of Maxfield but to plain Roger Ingleton.
He was still an infant--( "Hear, hear!" from Tom)--and was in no hurry to get out of the charge of his guardians.

Whatever his other expectations might be, he felt that his best heritage was the name he bore; and he hoped, as his noble neighbour had said, he should turn out worthy of that.
As he sat down, flushed with his effort, and wondering what two persons there would think of his feeble performance, his eye fell on the form of Dr Brandram, who at that moment hurriedly entered the room.
He saw him whisper something to Armstrong, who changed colour and rose from his seat.