Beside the river, she dawdled a little, having marked down several trout which might, later on, be captured by a Green Jacket. She hoped that Lionel would not miss the big May-fly rise in June. If he left India at once he would arrive in the nick of time. She recalled his tremendous triumph beneath the bridge, a thirteen pounder caught with a lump of raw beef. _The Field_ had a paragraph about it. He was a boy of sixteen at the time, and she a fat child of ten. She had scampered at his bidding to the Pomfret Arms to get a landing net. Halfway down the village she met Bonsor, who tried to escape from her. He “bobbed”—the Squire’s descriptive word—when she mentioned the chancel. And he evaded searching questions concerning the thatching of certain cottages. Joyce inquired politely after the Squire, and learned that he was furious because a local sanitary inspector had condemned some pigsties. Bonsor speculated vaguely as to the future of a world where such interference was possible, and then went his solitary way, grumbling and growling. Joyce wondered why the Squire employed Bonsor. Her father scrapped him as hopelessly out of touch with modern conditions. But Bonsor, although a Hampshire man, had married in Nether Applewhite. He had become, accordingly, one of Sir Geoffrey’s people. The Squire would never scrap him. By noon, she had reached the Hall. As she approached the front door she saw Lady Pomfret busily engaged on the lawn clipping obtruding twigs from a topiary group of hen and chickens cunningly fashioned out of box. Her delight and satisfaction in such tiny accessories to a great place appealed deeply to Joyce, constrained, as she was, to find her pleasure in similar insignificant things. Lady Pomfret kissed her, and at touch of her lips the girl guessed that the great news had reached the mother. “Lionel is coming home,” said Lady Pomfret. “I believe, my dear, that I am the happiest woman in England.” To Joyce’s surprise she was kissed again. “How splendid,” said Joyce. Lady Pomfret glanced at her keenly, but no blush stole into Joyce’s cheeks. “You must stay to luncheon, child. At this moment, Fishpingle, I believe, is decanting a bottle of our ‘Yellow Seal’ port, and the Squire is assisting him. We were a little put out this morning about some condemned pigsties, but we have forgotten that. And, by the way, have you walked up here to see a lonely old woman, or is your visit—parochial?” “Both,” said Joyce. “Ah! Well, under the special circumstances, shall we decide to side-track—I learnt that word from dear Lionel—the parochial part. If you like you can tell me.” “Father wanted so much to know about the chancel repairs. He believes that the roof may fall in.” The Pomfret family pew happened to be in the chancel, another bone of contention between parson and squire. Lady Pomfret’s kind eyes perceived that Joyce was ill at ease, unhappy at mentioning one of many things left undone. She tapped her cheek.