Sir Geoffrey stood still for a moment after his son had left the room. Then he sat down in the big armchair, staring vacantly at the hearth. His premonition had come true—the boy had stuck a knife into him. Almost in a whisper he murmured hoarsely, “Lionel!” Fishpingle turned. “Shall I call Master Lionel back?” “No,” said the Squire. He spoke drearily. The bloom of his fine maturity seemed to fade. He looked pale and haggard. Fishpingle had a disconcerting glimpse of old age, of old age in its most sorrowful and touching manifestation, solitary, disconsolate, apathetic. The Squire leaned his head upon his hand, as if the weight of thoughts were insupportable. Outside a bird twittered monotonously—some house sparrow bent upon disturbing the peace of the swallows, migrants whom he regarded as trespassers. “Damn that sparrow!” exclaimed Sir Geoffrey. He sat upright; the sanguine colour flowed back into his clean-shaven cheeks. Perhaps the consoling reflection stole into his mind that matters might be worse: the boy might have married the Parson’s daughter secretly. He said testily to Fishpingle: “Don’t gape at me like that! Keep your pity for those who may need it.” Fishpingle obeyed. His face slowly hardened into the impassive mask of the well-trained servant. The Squire continued less testily but with reproachful mockery: “So you, you, the man I have trusted for fifty years, were chosen by my son to plead a cause which he hadn’t the pluck to plead for himself.” “Nothing was settled about that, Sir Geoffrey.” “Tchah! He went to you, not to his mother—I lay my life on it—nor to me. Why? Because, obviously, you were on his side, siding, b’ Jove! against—me.” “I side with Master Lionel, Sir Geoffrey.” “That’s honest, at any rate. We know where we are. Now, Ben, you shall plead his case in his absence. I will listen as patiently as may be. Begin!” Fishpingle opened his lips and closed them. “Ha! You are silent because there is nothing to say.” “No. Because there is so much—all, all that I have learnt during those fifty years, all that I hold most dear, most sacred——” His voice died away. The Squire was not unmoved. He cleared his throat vigorously and said kindly: “Take your time. This shall be threshed out fairly between us. Sit down! Keep your hands quiet, Ben. When you fidget, it distracts me.” “I would rather stand, Sir Geoffrey.” “Do as you please.” With indulgent irony he added, “The counsel for the defence addresses the Court standing.” Fishpingle moved a little nearer. He spoke very slowly, as a man speaks who has some long-considered message to deliver. “Master Lionel, before he went to India, did not expect to survive you.” The Squire moved uneasily. Fishpingle had recalled cruel anxieties never quite forgotten, what may be termed the unpaid bills of life pigeon-holed, put aside for Fate and Fortune to settle. He replied, however, with decision: “He has grown into a strong man.”