“I baint so sure,” retorted the dame, sharply. “God A’mighty’s ways be past findin’ out. I mind me prayin’ as never so for a second husband, bein’ lucky with Job Parish, but that prayer went on t’ muck-heap.” After a few more words, they passed on. “A gallant old soul!” Margot observed. Lady Pomfret nodded, saying reflectively— “I think I must pray for young Charley Parish.” Margot considered this. “If you do,” she predicted, “he will carry out his bat.” By the time they had circled the field, Joyce and Moxon had arrived. The Professor was duly presented to her little ladyship, who engaged him forthwith in talk, strolling on with him, whilst Joyce sat by Lady Pomfret. Moxon’s face and figure pleased Margot. He looked that happy combination, a man of thought and action. His grey eyes were clear as his complexion; the nose was delicately modelled; his chin indicated resolution. When he smiled, he showed white even teeth. Margot said easily— “Lionel Pomfret has talked to me about you. He is rather absorbent. I managed to squeeze your ideas out of him. They interested me, although they conflict with my own.” Moxon showed some surprise. “Ideas, Lady Margot? What do you conceive to be my ideas?” “The regeneration of the land, the amelioration of rural conditions, a clean sweep of—us.” She laughed, exhibiting no trace of malice. Moxon perceived, none the less, that he was challenged. He answered her quietly— “I never said that to Pomfret.” “You must be mistaken.” “I am positive.” “I have it. You talked to Miss Hamlin and her father.” “Oh yes.” “Miss Hamlin repeated what she heard to Mr. Pomfret. Perhaps she failed to report to you quite accurately.” Moxon hastened to defend Joyce. Inaccuracy was not her weakness. His views were public property. He repudiated warmly any desire upon his part to sweep away anything of value. Margot was constrained to withdraw the last indictment. “All the same, Mr. Moxon—ought I to call you ‘Professor’?” “Most certainly not.” “All the same,” she continued, “that underlies your programme. I am well aware that we rule, to-day, on sufferance. As yet, the country people, particularly the people in such counties as this, are singularly free from disaffection. You and your friends are stirring them up.” “To help themselves,” he interrupted; “to make them realise that they are practically parasites, living for you and on you.” “I dare say. These good fellows,” she indicated the Nether-Applewhite XI, “don’t look like parasites.” “This parish is exceptional. Even here—I hesitate to offend.” “Pray go on!” “Even here the condition is that of stagnant dependence. The labourers are at the mercy of farmer and landowner. Power is not abused on this state, but it might be. At Ocknell Manor the conditions are atrocious. Everything is left to an ignorant agent, who skins ’em alive.” Margot shrugged her slender shoulders.