This policy was not to Lionel’s taste. Hamlin, too would abhor it, wax sour under it, suppress pride and wrath till they might break bonds and run amok. Under the suspense of waiting, Euphrosyne would languish. But what else could be done? The Fates, not Lionel, answered the insistent question. Upon the Tuesday afternoon the Squire went a-fishing by himself, too perturbed of mind to seek any companion save that of his own thoughts. One thing—quite enough—he knew. The boy had not “gone for” Margot. None the less, they remained on easy, intimate terms with each other. But at dinner, after the hunt, Margot had spoken of leaving on the following Wednesday. The Squire was a stickler for keeping social engagements; such engagements were made, of course, by a young lady of quality many weeks ahead. Had he received from Lionel, over their wine, some intimation that all was well, he would have been quite satisfied. But why did the boy hold his tongue? What ailed him? Lady Pomfret was solemnly interrogated. Let her hazard some reasonable conjecture! She presented one, tentatively, placidly, and exasperatingly. The young people might wish to remain simply and enduringly—_friends_. The Squire was much ruffled, purged his mind drastically, dropped an oath, and apologised. He kept on repeating himself: “She wants him, I tell you. She was ripe for the pluckin’ a week ago. That my son should be a laggard——!” His wife consoled him with the assurance that no man could read a maid’s heart. “I read yours,” he affirmed. She smiled at him. He kissed her and went his way. Lionel caught Joyce alone for a few blessed minutes. She had told the Parson. “What did he say, my angel?” “He was wonderful,” she sighed. “I was right to tell him.” “Of course you were,” he exclaimed fervently. “Will it hurt you to tell me exactly what he said about—about me—and father?” “He anticipates grave trouble. I’ll tell you every word, when——” “When?” “When the trouble is over. He would rather not see you yet. His position is——” “Humiliating! When I look at you——!” “I don’t look my best this morning, a bedraggled thing!” To this he replied vehemently: “Joyce, my blessed girl, nothing can cheapen you or your father. Not prejudice, nor discourtesy—if it should come to that—nor injustice. I have told Margot. She was very sympathetic. Of course, she always regarded me as a friend. She will help, if she can. Her advice—and, mind you, she’s a dasher—is: _Creep—crane—go canny!_ Father’s absurd position can’t be carried by storm. I shall undermine the fortress. That will take time.” “Yes; but I warn you father won’t wait too long.” “I count on Fishpingle. If you could have seen his dear old face when I told him! We shall collogue, I promise you.” He returned home, champing the curb which circumstances imposed.