“Lionel dined with us,” said the Parson. “Your message was duly delivered to him by Fishpingle.” “Then we both know where we are,” said the Squire briskly. “Do we, Sir Geoffrey?” A suppressed irony, not lost upon the Squire, informed the question. The Parson had long held the opinion—shared, as we know, by Lady Margot—that the lay rector of his parish wandered in the Middle Ages. Sir Geoffrey believed that his vicar kept company with rogues and vagabonds, whom he described genetically as demagogues. “I know where I am,” amended the Squire. “I have often said that I inherited this property with certain disabilities. Amongst them, I take it, _you_ would reckon a keen sense of trusteeship, a sense of tradition, a conviction that I must follow where my predecessors have trod before me.” Hamlin smiled grimly. “You are right. I reckon that sense a disability. But I respect any man’s honest convictions. I will be equally frank with you. Had it rested with me, I should have chosen for my daughter a husband who was entirely free from those same crippling disabilities. I should not have chosen your son.” “Then I repeat—we know where we are.” “Not yet. Where _we_ are seems to me of little consequence. I am concerned with others, the position of my daughter and your son. They love each other.” “Can they marry on that alone?” “Certainly not. I am a proud man, Sir Geoffrey, and I will not inflict pain upon you and mortification upon myself by asking the obvious question: What have you got against my child? I can answer that question myself. I know where she and I stand in your eyes. I remember your expression when I told you that I didn’t bear arms. I saw that a stupid jest on my part irritated you. We Hamlins are yeomen. My forefathers wore leather jerkins when yours rode in mail-armour. You prize your descent from them; I prize mine. Let that pass. You are you; I am I. Probably, we shall carry our traditions and predilections to the grave with us. It comes to this. If I put it bluntly, as a yeoman, forgive me. Your parson’s daughter is not good enough to marry your son.” The Squire winced a little, reflecting that a yeoman had indeed spoken bluntly. He was tempted to state his own case, but wisely refrained. The Parson—confound him!—chose to put the thing in a nutshell. Let it remain there. Nevertheless, he said courteously: “I have a genuine affection and respect for Joyce; but, as you say, I do prize my descent. And I wish to see it continued unblemished.” “Then why did you ask my daughter to your house? Why, feeling as you do, did you expose her to the dangerous possibility of what has actually taken place? Why didn’t you, a descendant of knights, protect an innocent, artless girl against the attractiveness and intelligence of you own son?” The Squire had not expected this. He frowned, pulling at his chin, a trick that indicated perplexity. And a better swordsman might have been sore put to it to parry successfully such a thrust.