The Compsons’ house was quite as “grand” in the reality as Dolly had imagined it. There was a manservant in a white tie to wait at table, and the family dressed every evening for dinner. Yet, much to her surprise, Dolly found from the first the grandeur did not in the least incommode her. On the contrary, she enjoyed it. She felt forthwith she was to the manner born. This was clearly the life she was intended by nature to live, and might actually have been living—she, the granddaughter of so grand a man as the late Dean of Dunwich—had it not been for poor Mamma’s ridiculous fancies. Mamma was so faddy! Before Dolly had spent three whole days at the rectory, she talked just as the Compsons did; she picked up by pure instinct the territorial slang of the county families. One would have thought, to hear her discourse, she had dressed for dinner every night of her life, and passed her days in the society of the beneficed clergy.
But even that did not exhaust the charm of Upcombe for Dolly. For the first time in her life, she saw something of men—real men, with horses and dogs and guns—men who went out partridge shooting in the season and rode to hounds across country, not the pale abstractions of cultured humanity who attended the Fabian Society meetings or wrote things called articles in the London papers. Her mother’s friends wore soft felt hats and limp woollen collars; these real men were richly clad in tweed suits and fine linen. Dolly was charmed with them all, but especially with one handsome and manly young fellow named Walter Brydges, the stepson and ward of a neighbouring parson. “How you talked with him at tennis today!” Winnie Compson said to her friend, as they sat on the edge of Dolly’s bed one evening. “He seemed quite taken with you.”
A pink spot of pleasure glowed on Dolly’s round cheek to think that a real young man, in good society, whom she met at so grand a house as the Compsons’, should seem to be quite taken with her.
“Who is he, Winnie?” she asked, trying to look less self-conscious. “He’s extremely good-looking.”
“Oh, he’s Mr Hawkshaw’s stepson, over at Combe Mary,” Winnie answered with a nod. “Mr Hawkshaw’s the vicar there till Mamma’s nephew is ready to take the living—what they call a warming-pan. But Walter Brydges is Mrs Hawkshaw’s son by her first husband. Old Mr Brydges was the squire of Combe Mary, and Walter’s his only child. He’s very well off. You might do worse, dear. He’s considered quite a catch down in this part of the country.”