Dinner was a lamentable affair, although an outsider might have found food for comedy. Alfred, for example, failed to follow the lead of Fishpingle, who conducted himself as usual. Charles, the second footman, looked like a mute at a funeral. Margot, however, shone brilliantly, lightly bridging chasms of silence. Lionel was not present. Just before dinner, Lady Pomfret went to Margot’s room, and put before her the facts. Margot shrugged her shoulders: “But, really, as I said in Fishpingle’s room, this is feudal.” “So it is.” “Sir Geoffrey will have to surrender an untenable position.” “I am not sanguine.” That was all, and quite enough, too, as Margot reflected to herself. Whereupon she purged her mind of any desire that Lionel should suffer at his father’s hands. Her philosophy, her hatred of what was disagreeable, her temperamental inability to feel very deeply, hastened to her rescue. From some high coigne of vantage, she surveyed herself and could smile at her own discomfiture. If she could calm this tempest in a teapot, if she, unaided, could persuade her host that his position was untenable, with what trailing clouds of glory would she speed from Pomfret Court! Twice, between soup and savoury, she made the autocrat laugh. Lady Pomfret divined her kind intentions, and smiled derisively. The almost interminable dinner ended. Coffee was served in the Long Saloon. The Squire had just finished his chasse of old brandy, when Fishpingle came in. “Mr. Hamlin, Sir Geoffrey, wishes to see you. I have shown him into the library.” “Um! I will join Mr. Hamlin at once.” As the door closed behind Fishpingle, the Squire said testily: “Just like the man. Well, I expected him. And the sooner it’s over the better.” He stumped out. Margot, for an instant, wished that she were a housemaid, with no scruples about eavesdropping. Greek was about to meet Greek, and a memorable encounter must take place. Lady Pomfret sat, shading her eyes with her hand, reflecting that men were nearly all alike. How often she had said to her husband, when he was straining at the leash to meet and “down” some obstreperous tenant, “Dear Geoffrey, sleep over it.” And as invariably he had replied, “My dear Mary, I can’t sleep over this. I shall lie awake all night. I must settle this pestilent fellow.” In some such a spirit the Parson had come to Pomfret Court. When had he hesitated to speak his mind? Right was right, so he maintained, and must prevail. But often, too often, right did not prevail. A good cause is like a good horse. It must be ridden with judgment. “Will there be ructions?” asked Margot, sympathetically. “I fear so, my dear. How helpless women are at such times!” “Yes; we co-operate with the forces of gravity, men don’t.” Meanwhile the Squire was entering his own room. The Parson greeted him austerely, refusing a cup of coffee and a cigar. He accepted a chair. The Squire sat down at his big desk.