“He is a gentleman—all through. His story—the little I have heard of it—confirms that. Lady Alicia had a pretty maid, who went about with her. _Une petite faute._ We can guess the rest.” “You are very sharp, Margot. That is mother’s opinion.” “Is it? Then the thing is settled. Your dear mother is sharper than I am.” Lionel was astounded. “Mother—sharp?” “As a Damascus blade, and as finely tempered. I must look up the directories. I never heard of a gentle family with the name—Fishpingle.” “Nor I.” “It sounds like the name of a place.” “So it does.” They joined the others on the lawn. Joyce, Moxon, the Parson, and Lady Pomfret were listening to the Squire as he dwelt at length upon the vicissitudes of the day. Alfred stood high in his favour. He gazed affectionately at the Parson. Lionel was welcomed with winged words; even so Nestor may have acclaimed Achilles. “Is it a mirage?” thought Margot, as she went up to her pretty room. * * * * * CHAPTER XII Church parade at Pomfret Court was something of a function. The Squire assumed the silk hat and black coat of Mayfair, with shepherd’s plaid continuations and spats. Lady Pomfret affected soft grey silk. Lionel could remember the day, shortly after he had joined his regiment, when, greatly daring, he had appeared before his sire in blue serge, topped by a billy-cock! The Squire stared at him, but said nothing. Had he despatched his son to his bedroom, with orders to appear in regulation kit Lionel would have obeyed. Visitors, need it be said, were expected to answer the roll call. In winter and rainy weather the house-party assembled in the hall; in summer they foregathered on the lawn. At the right moment the Squire would glance at his massive watch. Then Lady Pomfret and he would walk majestically down the path which led to the church, at a pace sanctified by immemorial custom. The visitors followed, chastened, let us trust, by such an example. It has been mentioned that the family pew was in the chancel, at the back of the choir. It held a curious collection of prayer-books with Pomfret names upon the fly-leaves, and as often as not suitable inscriptions. Margot, discarding her own tiny manual, opened a much-battered specimen. In faded Italian handwriting were these lines— “To my dear little son, from his loving mother, Selina Pomfret.”