“You say ‘no,’ Sir Geoffrey. Then you force me to speak not as man to man, but as your vicar who would consider himself recreant to his vows if he held his peace at such a moment.” The Squire was “touched,” as fencers put it. What did the fellow mean? What the devil was he up to now? Hamlin continued austerely: “You are a member of my congregation, and as such neither greater nor less than any other in this parish. I tell you plainly that you are in danger of mortal sin, for such unwarrantable interference with the welfare of others, an interference which in the case of Alfred and Prudence Rockley may lead to actual sin, is a crime against God and man. I charge you to pause before you exercise powers vested in you, as you admit, and for which you will be held ultimately to strict account.” The Squire rose. “I accept that responsibility, Mr. Hamlin. Good night.” The Parson rose with him. He bowed with grim dignity. The Squire rang the bell and opened the library door. As Hamlin passed through, he said quietly: “Lionel is passing the night at the Vicarage.” To this the Squire made no reply. * * * * * The Parson returned to the Vicarage, where Lionel and Joyce awaited him. One glance at his grim face sufficed. A strong man had been hit hard in a weak place. Possibly, he accepted punishment penitentially. But it was not his way to admit that to others. Joyce flew at him, kissing him tenderly, holding his hands. Lionel felt more in love than ever as he watched a pretty display of sympathy and pity. With much feeling he said regretfully: “It has been beastly for you, sir.” The Parson was in no mood to tell a tale even if it reflected credit on himself. He set forth the fact that mattered: “Sir Geoffrey refuses his sanction. I say this for him. He accepts full responsibility. His position is archaic, impregnable on that account to the assault of reason.” Lionel flushed, but he replied eagerly: “My mother will fight for us. I have her word. I wish she could keep out of it.” “Lady Pomfret will meet what I have met—ah obstinate faith, a conscience clearly sincere though perverted. This unconscious abuse of Authority is basic, racial. It is sapping its own foundations everywhere, but how can your father be made to see that?” “I don’t know, sir.” “Nor I,” murmured Joyce. “I suppose,” said Lionel, after a pause, “that you, sir, will refuse your sanction?” “Apart from sentimental considerations, I ask you, Lionel, as I should ask any other man, how do you propose to support a wife if your father cuts off your allowance?” This talk took place in Hamlin’s study, lined with books cheaply bound and constantly read, so different in every aspect from the Squire’s library. The Parson had sat down at his desk. Joyce sat near him. Lionel remained standing. “I am not afraid of poverty,” the young man declared stoutly. “Nor I,” murmured Joyce.