Some few days after the events recorded in the last chapter, Joyce Hamlin was sitting at breakfast with her father. Hamlin, black-a-vized, with pale, clear skin, big but gaunt, gobbled up his food with that indifference to it so common to men of his character. Joyce ministered to him faithfully. Since his wife’s death, Hamlin had become even more absorbed in his work, and talked of little else. Joyce served as housekeeper and curate. When he rose and filled his pipe she said cheerfully: “Any particular orders, daddy?” “You might see Bonsor about those repairs in the chancel. We shall have the roof falling in before we know where we are.” “Mr. Bonsor has referred the matter to the Squire.” “Perhaps a word to old Fishpingle would expedite things.” “If I see him, I’ll mention it.” “Or, better still, attack Lady Pomfret.” Joyce laughed. “Same thing, daddy.” “Eh?” “Lady Pomfret manipulates the Squire through Fishpingle.” Hamlin saw no humour in this. Strategy exasperated him. He practiced direct methods, frontal attack, with the accompanying heavy artillery of argument. “Letters late, as usual,” he said testily. “Postman chattering at the hall when he ought to be half way through the village. How long, O Lord, how long?” He broke out into sharp criticism and condemnation of the old order, stigmatised as selfish, domineering, and negligent. Joyce listened deferentially. It was a real grief to her that parson and squire pulled against each other, because she saw clearly how much might have been achieved had they pulled together. Anyway, the Pomfrets had been charming to her and her brothers. A bouncing parlourmaid entered with the belated letters and the _Westminster Gazetter_, which arrived by post, some three hours ahead of the daily papers—another Hamlin grievance. Hamlin took the letters from the servant, who went out. One letter, with a Rawal-Pindi postmark upon the envelope, was addressed to Joyce. Her father said carelessly: “Who is your Indian correspondent?” Joyce answered as carelessly: “Lionel Pomfret.” Hamlin opened his _Westminster_ and became absorbed in a leading article. Joyce opened her letter, read it, and re-read it. She sat in her late mother’s place at the head of the table. Hamlin was standing near the window. She started slightly when she heard his voice. “What does young Pomfret say for himself?” “He is coming home. Oh, dear!” Hamlin raised his dark brows. Joyce explained, less calmly: “He begged me not to mention it.” “How absurd! How could his coming home concern anybody except himself and his people? Obviously a Pomfret, saturated with a sense of his own importance.” Joyce had plenty of spirit. She retorted pleasantly but incisively: “You are mistaken, daddy, it might be better for Lionel if he had a greater sense of his own importance. Unless he has changed very much, he is altogether too modest and unassuming.” “Then why this ridiculous mystery about his comings and goings?”