“Father, somehow, won’t realise that Sir Geoffrey is terribly cramped for ready money.” Lionel muttered as dismally: “Is it as bad as that?” She nodded. He went on excitedly: “This is a nasty jar, Joyce. I swear to you that it’s bad news for me. I never suspected it. He ought to have told me.” A faint derision informed her next words. “You ought to have guessed.” “Ought I?” He considered this, frowning. Then they talked of lighter matters, each enchanted to note the changes in the other. Betore they parted, after a half promise from Joyce that she might wander to the river, Lionel said abruptly: “You are happy, Joyce? You look happy, but——” “But?” “There isn’t much to amuse you here.” “I love the place and the people.” This statement of fact was weighed and not found wanting as Lionel hastened back to the Hall. Joyce was now a woman of twenty, but she retained the freshness and bloom of a girl of seventeen. Lionel guessed that she had filled her mother’s place admirably. He compared her to his own mother. When a young man does this, he ought to see and recognise the road he is travelling. Lionel had no such sense of direction. He decided hastily that Joyce, being often in his mother’s company, had grown delightfully like her. He whistled as he strode along. At breakfast, he told the tale of his wanderings. At mention of the Vicarage, the Squire remarked irritably: “Joyce is well enough, a good girl, but Hamlin is gettin’ impossible. He does a lot of mischief in the village.” Lionel retorted warmly: “Father, he is incapable of that.” Lady Pomfret winced. But she hastened to add: “Your dear father doesn’t accuse Mr. Hamlin of making mischief deliberately.” At that, the Squire “took the floor.” He spoke vehemently, with a feeling and emotion that surprised and confounded his son. Hamlin, first and last, was a Rad, with a Rad’s pestilent notions about property. He stuck his nose into every pie in the parish. He positively exuded Socialism. The fellow was of the people and with the people. All his ideas were impossible and Utopian. Did he do mischief deliberately? Perhaps not. But, unconsciously, he set class against class. He was importunate in his demands—demands, b’ Jove! which no landowner could grant without hostilising his farmers. Take wages. Concede, if you like, that wages were low in Wiltshire, about as low as the intelligence of the peasants. Concede, also, that in special cases a landowner might pay higher wages to his own outdoor servants, under-gardeners and the like. Concede all that, and then try it! And every farmer on your property would besiege you with protests, because they—poor devils!—couldn’t pay higher wages. Outsiders never understood these things. It was like arguing about sport with fellows who weren’t sportsmen. Hamlin had played cricket for his ’Varsity, but he wasn’t a sportsman. There you had it in a nutshell.