“Has she money, father?” The Squire flushed, as he answered quickly: “A hatful.” Presently, father and son took the road to the Home Farm. The Squire noticed that Lionel seemed slightly preoccupied, that he praised perfunctorily the Shorthorns and Suffolk Punches. Being an impassioned optimist—except upon the subject of estate management—the Squire hoped that his heir’s thoughts had flown away in the direction of Lady Margot. We may hazard the conjecture that Lionel was concerned rather with the difficulties of breaking “beastly” news to a generous but choleric sire. * * * * * CHAPTER VI Fishpingle had given Lionel sound advice. The Squire was generally at his best after dinner, provided, of course, that the cook had done her duty. Upon this occasion, in honour of the heir, she had surpassed herself. And a glass of vintage port, after champagne, has a mellowing effect. Throughout dinner, the Squire’s mercurial spirits rose steadily. Indeed, as he was sipping his port, he said, with a jolly laugh, that the Hamlins must be invited to dine—and the sooner the better, b’ Jove! Parson Pomfret had tucked stout legs under his mahogany once a week. A rare old bird—that! He related anecdotes about Hamlin’s predecessor. The family rat-catcher, Bob Nobs by name, sung lustily in the village choir. But he raised his stentorian voice high above Parson Pomfret’s endurance. One Sunday morning, after the first hymn, the Parson addressed him sharply: “Look ye here, Bob Nobs, the angels will like your singing just as well if you don’t sing so loud.” “Did you laugh, father?” asked Lionel. The Squire was scandalised. “Laugh, sir? Laugh in God’s House! Certainly not, but I fairly split my sides in the churchyard.” As soon as Lady Pomfret left the dining-room, the Squire said briskly: “Another glass of wine, Lionel? It won’t hurt you, my boy,” and he pushed the decanter across the table. “Thanks, no.” He hesitated, flushed, and plunged. “The truth is, sir, I do need Dutch courage. But with your permission I’ll drink another glass of wine after I’ve told you something.” The Squire whacked the table. “Damn it all!” he roared. “Have you told me a lie? Are you in love?” “No,” said Lionel. The Squire’s face indicated immense relief. “Pass the wine, sir. If you think you’ll need stiffening after your story, I shall do well to fortify myself before.” He poured out a bumper, and said curtly: “Forrard! Forrard!” “I owe five hundred pounds.” He waited for the outburst, but none came. Lionel went on hastily. He stated his case, the nature of the debt, and how it could be met by an advance from his agents, with a written guarantee from the Squire. He finished gallantly: “I can pay up by instalments, out of my allowance. And when I join the regiment, I am reasonably sure of being made adjutant, if I work for it. The C.O. half promised that.” The Squire said solemnly: