By the luck of things, during the days that followed Lionel and Joyce never met. Lionel had to go to London to replenish his wardrobe. He suggested a Salisbury tailor as good enough for an economising subaltern, but the Squire insisted upon a London snip. Lionel wondered whether Lady Margot Maltravers flitted into his father’s mind when he said, “Smarten yourself up, boy. You fellows from India come back looking confoundedly provincial.” Probably Lady Margot would not dash at a pair of trousers that bagged at the knee. He spent three days in town and “did” a play or two. After that the Pomfrets visited some neighbours—a many-acred squire and his wife—old friends who lived handsomely if not luxuriously. But their town house had been let, and the stables had fewer horses in them. Lionel listened to his host in the smoking-room, as he talked with Sir Geoffrey about the same eternal question of falling rents. It was pathetic to hear them, to know—as Lionel did—that such fine specimens of the race were passing—never to return. Could England spare this particular type? Could the old landed gentry be saved? If such a devout consummation depended upon their own unaided efforts the chance of salvage might be deemed negligible. Lionel met the son of the house, an old school-fellow, who was in the Blues. The young men talked together. They agreed solemnly that the deuce was to pay. Lionel confessed his inability to solve the problem. Tom Challoner said blandly: “We’re up against it. I’m chasing a jolly little Yank with a barrel of dollars. If I pull it off, Lionel, the old place is safe for a generation or two. That’s how they’ve kept together the big properties in France.” Lionel replied bluntly: “It seems a rotten way of doing it.” “Tell me some other dodge.” Lionel remained silent. Next day the four men of the party played golf—singles in the morning and a foursome in the afternoon. Age played with Age and Youth with Youth. In the foursome, Age triumphed. During the morning, Lionel said carelessly to his companion: “I wonder if you know Lady Margot Maltravers?” “Know her, my dear fellow? Everybody knows La Reine Margot.” “You call her that, do you?” “I don’t. Her Majesty doesn’t bother with the likes of me.” Lionel tried to disguise his astonishment. At Eton his companion had cut “a wide swath.” He was in “Pop,” and a member of the School XI, a bright star, shining high above Lionel. And now, when they met again, Lionel was well aware that in Mrs. Grundy’s shrewd eyes, and in the eyes of marriageable young women, a handsome captain of the Household Cavalry loomed larger than a Green Jacket subaltern. “What do you mean, Tom?” “Just what I say. She’s a clever nut is Margot. She consorts with the highbrows. Know her? Why, your old governor met her in our house. She’s took an uncommon shine to him. He cut us all out.” “She is coming to stay with us in a fortnight.”