“A fine sermon, Mr. Moxon.” He assented quietly. “When I saw you in church, I wondered whether you belonged to us.” “I am a Presbyterian.” “Another Established Church. And yet, surely, you disapprove of establishments?” He laughed. “Of some. Powdered lacqueys arouse my worst feelings.” “Do they? Over-dressed maidservants have that effect on me. Shall we see you this afternoon?” “I think not.” * * * * * Lionel, with a Sunday luncheon slightly oppressing him, went for a long tramp by himself, seeking the high moorland, where he hoped that an ampler æther would clear his befogged wits. He was uncomfortably sensible of his limitations, as thinker and speaker, when he talked with Margot. She had characterised him as “absorbent.” He “took in” her talk, but found it indigestible and clogging. Her experience, so variegated, produced a kaleidoscopic effect upon his mental vision, dazzling judgment. He was quick enough to grasp the elemental fact that she belonged to the “loaves and fishes” school. She had fighting instincts. She could and would fight in defence of property, and all it included. And she would use, ruthlessly, her own weapons—the rapier of her wit, the heavy sceptre of sovereignty. After luncheon, while he was smoking a cigar with his father, Sir Geoffrey had spoken a seasonable word. “My boy,” he said, “the little lady likes you. Now—go for her! Go for her!” “You have had her in your eye all along, father?” The Squire winked, laughing jovially. “Spotted her at once. A dasher.” “I know. But why should she dash at me?” “Tchah! If you come to that, why did your dear mother cotton to me? B’ Jove! that bowled me over, I can tell you. She was a dasher, too. Sharp as a needle in those ancient days.” “Margot says she is just as sharp now.” “Rubbish! The most guileless woman I know. You ask a direct question—why does Margot take to you? I’ll tell you. She knows a good thing when she sees it. I read her easily.” “I’m hanged if I do.” “She gave me a hint when we first met. She’s dashed at the wrong sort, run riot a bit with a pack of half-bred hounds, clever riff-raff. Old Challoner told me that nice boys like his son were frightened of her. Being independent, she chose to trot out of her own class. Girls of her quality soon trot back. I caught the little witch at the right moment. It’s time she settled down—and she knows it. She knew, also, what I was up to when I asked her here. She came, she saw—and you’ve conquered. When she accepted our invitation to stay on, the matter was nearly clinched. Now—go for her!” Lionel sat silent. “Dammy, boy, have you nothing to say?” “I like her most awfully, father. I’ve never been so pally with any girl, except Joyce.” “Why lug in Joyce?” growled the Squire. “She’s canoodlin’ with the Professor at this moment, I’ll be bound.” Lionel experienced a pang. Jealousy ravaged him. The Squire went on less testily: