“If your Euphrosyne wore a gown, describe it to me. Obviously Sir Geoffrey has begun to make love to his own wife.” “I’ve never stopped, my dear.” Lionel knew that this was true. And the fact illumined his horizon. His father had married for love, and remained in love. Such a true lover would warm to all lovers. Just then he remembered Prudence and Alfred. Unconsciously he frowned. “Why do you frown?” asked Margot. The Squire was bantering his wife. Under cover of that jolly voice, Lionel said softly: “I happened to think of two hapless lovers with a barbed wire fence between them and marriage.” “Really? Can’t they cut it?” “No—it must be cut for them.” * * * * * CHAPTER XIII Lionel awoke gaily to the consciousness that he was in love, and beloved, and going hunting in Arcadia. What young man could expect more of the gods? True, Joyce remained at home. But absence, after the first intoxicating avowal, does indeed make the heart grow fonder. Nevertheless, he “funked” his confession to Margot. Had he been less ingenuous and modest that “funk” might have been greater. But he couldn’t bring himself to believe that Margot really wanted him, as he, for example, wanted Joyce. And it must be self-evident by this time that such non-belief was justified. Men and women have so much energy. Some have more than others, but the underlying principle is constant. Energy can be conserved or dissipated. Margot squandered vital force upon many people and many things. Let the sages decide whether she had received value or not. Assuredly she had eaten many cakes. Alfred assisted at the drawing on of boots, polished till they shone like glass. Lionel said to him: “Prudence and you must mark time, Alfred.” “Ah-h-h! That be gospel truth. And ’tis true, too, that stolen kisses be sweet, but I fair ache for more of ’em. Mr. Fishpingle do say: ‘Enough, ’tis as good as a feast!’ but I be hungry for the feast, Master Lionel.” “You leave it to me.” “But can you downscramble Squire, Master Lionel?” “‘Downscramble’ is good. Keep a stiff upper lip. She’s worth waiting for and fighting for.” “That she be, the dinky dear.” “I say, Alfred, scent ought to be good to-day.” That, also, was the Squire’s opinion, expressed thrice at breakfast. Hounds met at twelve about six miles from Nether-Applewhite. The horses were to be sent on, a motor would convey Margot, Sir Geoffrey and Lionel to the meet. A second horse was generously provided, for Margot in case the tufting were prolonged. The Squire said to her: “I want you to see the real thing from start to finish, a wild buck scientifically hunted and killed.” “I don’t want it killed, Sir Geoffrey.” The Squire was shocked. Such a remark from Moxon would have amused him. He thought this lady of quality knew better.