“Not much. I’ve had a topping time, thanks to your generosity, sir, but, I ask you, when you were in the Coldstream what did you and your pals talk about?” The Squire exploded, not loudly. “I tell you this, sir: we didn’t talk socialism.” Lionel laughed. “I’ll bet you didn’t. I know what you talked about.” “We jaw on about the same good old subjects still, but half the fellows in our mess are in much the same position that I am. Their fathers, like you, own properties with decreasing rent-rolls. We have to talk about that sometimes.” “I should like to hear your conclusions.” “Right O! But they must be your own, more or less. The thing whittles itself down to efficiency. The very biggest men, the dukes, for instance, employ experts. The smaller men can’t afford that.” “Go on,” growled Sir Geoffrey, half-pleased, half-resentful. He was agreeably surprised to find that his boy possessed opinions which at any rate challenged attention. He was disagreeably aware that those opinions might clash with his own. Lionel went on: “If the smaller men can’t afford experts to run their estates, they must supply the necessary knowledge themselves. That means hard work and at best small pay. _And_—more intelligence in the working.” “We’ll go to bed,” said the Squire. He rose, looking affectionately at his son. “By the way,” he said lightly, “I’ve let the shootin’ this year, but that won’t affect you.” “Let the shooting?” The Squire nodded. Lionel’s disconcerted face rather pleased him. The boy was a chip of the old block. He added curtly: “I shan’t make a habit of it. The extra money comes in handy.” Lionel hesitated and flushed. “Are you really hard up?” “Well—yes. Let’s leave it at that.” His voice became genial. “I told you to-night, because old Ben would be sure to blurt it out to you to-morrow morning. No complaints! You’re at home again, and as fit as a fiddle. Don’t worry! We shall pull through.” Lionel’s expressive face remained pensive and distressed. An awful thought flitted into Sir Geoffrey’s head. To banish it was instinctive. He clutched his son’s arm. “I take it, my boy, that you ain’t entangled with any woman or girl out there—what?” Lionel laughed. “Lord, no. What an idea!” The Squire beamed at him. “Well, well—these things happen. We must find you a nice little wife, old chap, with a bit o’ money—a bit o’ money. Yes, yes, God forbid that any son of mine should marry for money, but why not follow the Quaker’s advice to his son, and go where money is.” “Why not?” said Lionel, smiling back at his father. They went arm-in-arm through the hall, and then to bed. * * * * * When the Squire reached the big room in which Lionel had been born he found Lady Pomfret still up and wide awake. The Squire chided her, but confessed that he was not feeling sleepy himself.