That afternoon he rode with the Squire. Father and son were very friendly together, although each shrank from discussion of subjects next his heart. This intercourse, so intimate—up to a point—revealed the Squire in a new light. Really the Squire revealed himself, accepting his boy, at long last, as man and comrade. To his dismay, however, Lionel did not share his feelings about the family heirlooms. Sir Geoffrey approached them warily, sincerely anxious to know where an up-to-date young soldier stood. “We have some valuable stuff in the old house,” he said. “Have we?” Lionel asked. “The Sir Joshua, for instance. With your consent, my boy, it might be sold.” “Would it fetch much?” “Possibly twenty thousand, if the right people were bidding.” Lionel whistled. Then he said, tentatively: “I love the picture, but I’d let it go gladly if the mortgage could be diminished by that big sum, or——” “Or?” “If the money could be laid out on the estate. Fishpingle says——” “Don’t quote old Ben to me, boy. He transmits my ideas. Well, well, you surprise me. I have regarded our heirlooms as sacred.” “But the mortgage, father?” “Tchah! You find that nice little girl. Snug dowries have cancelled many a mortgage.” “Yes; that is what Tom Chanoller says.” * * * * * The dinner was pleasant enough. Squire and Parson tacitly avoided subjects upon which they might differ. Joyce looked charming in the simple frock of her own making. Some tennis was arranged. Hamlin mentioned that his eldest son was coming home and bringing with him a friend. Of this friend, Joyce, somewhat to Lionel’s chagrin, spoke with enthusiasm. He had distinguished himself at Cambridge, was now a Fellow of his college, and regarded as a rising chemist. “A chemist?” exclaimed Lionel. “Not a druggist. His line is coal-tar products. He says the Germans have that field almost to themselves, but he is digging deep into it. Mr. Moxon has imagination. That is what is wanted in an inventor.” “Moxon?” said the Squire. “Let me see. One of the Moxons of Wooton?” Hamlin answered drily: “I don’t think so. Moxon’s father, I believe, made a fortune in jute.” “What is jute?” asked Lady Pomfret. Hamlin explained. Moxon _père_ had begun life sweeping out an office in Dundee. Moxon _fils_ might end—anywhere. Already he was quite independent of a rich father. “Very creditable,” said the Squire majestically. Everybody present knew that Sir Geoffrey would have shown much greater interest in a Moxon and Wooton. Nevertheless, he continued in the same tone, with a sweeping gesture: “I am told that our tennis courts are in order. We shall be delighted to see your young people using them. Possibly Mr. Moxon has studied artificial fertilisers. If so, I shall be happy to have a word with him.”