“That’s all I can find,” he said. “But why——” “Warthog’s been sacked,” said Audrey with blazing eyes. “That’s why.” “The devil he has,” said Christopher. “What about me?” “What about Sundial?” said Audrey. “The village has lost its shepherd—its only friend.” “It’s still got its Queen,” said John. “I can see that.” Audrey stamped her foot. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “I’m in earnest. I’m going to write to the brute.” “Audrey, I beg you——” “Show me the house,” said Audrey. “As soon as I’ve seen it, I’m going straight back to write.” Christopher took out a key and unfastened the padlock. With the chain in his hand, he looked at her. “I know every woman does it,” he said gently, “but they don’t all do it like you.” Audrey said nothing at all. In silence they passed up the avenue. . . . So they came to an archway with a coat of arms cut in the grey stone. This admitted to a courtyard, silent and sunlit. For a moment they stood gazing. Then a touch on his arm made Christopher John look round. A grave-eyed maiden was looking him in the face. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a low voice. “I had no right. It was very”—her eyes fell, and she blushed exquisitely—“very rotten of me to take it out upon you.” She was in his arms, and his face three inches away. “Audrey, my sweet, my darling. . . .” “No, no! Not that! Not that! I mean . . .” The man let her go instantly. For a moment Audrey stood, with her hand to her heart, breathing uncertainly. Then— “What a beautiful courtyard,” she said. “Will you go and unfasten the door? And I’ll come on.” * * * * * A week toiled by, during which the two met hardly at all. Then one morning a sweet-smelling note arrived at Christopher’s lodging before he was up. . . . That evening found them both on the sward before Domesday Mill. “The Lord of the Manor,” said Audrey, “has a pretty wit.” “Yes?” said Christopher John. Audrey produced a letter. “Read that,” she said. _DEAR MISS DE LISLE,_ _I know you well by repute, and I am satisfied that, when one so correct as yourself is impelled to take up the cudgels upon my tenants’ behalf, only a high sense of duty can have created that impulse. I therefore accept your letter as that of a cousin, and as such I answer it._ _You and I are plainly of different schools. You believe in the snaffle, and I believe in the curb. I do not suggest that you are wrong or argue that I am right, but what I have I will hold—in my own way. Call me hard, if you please, and say that I gather where I have not strawed. My withers are unwrung. I am of the other school. While I am Lord of the Manor, I will sell none of my land nor will I alter my ways. Horses are meant to be ridden, and, while I am in the saddle, I will ride Sundial on the curb._ _I say ‘while I am in the saddle.’_