Hamlin’s face stiffened. Lionel could read his thoughts. The Squire was not above accepting a tip from the son of a jute-manufacturer. Otherwise he might be regarded as an outsider. And, struggle as he did against inherited prejudices, Lionel, in his heart, was unable to regard this distinguished chemist as a social equal. Joyce, he reflected, could be reckoned as a jolly little sister. Joyce, evidently, had been swept off her feet by young Moxon. Suppose, too, that Moxon, a clever chap, had been captivated by her? Could he attend their wedding with satisfaction? Most emphatically—no! He did not ask himself what his feelings would be if Tom Challoner were leading Joyce to the altar. After dinner a round game was played, so Lionel had no chance of getting Joyce alone. The guests left early, and the Squire said, with a sigh of relief: “That’s well over. Hamlin drank lemonade. Depend upon it, lemonade irrigates his perversity. Beastly sour stuff! Joyce seems to like this jute-manufacture’s son. We may have a wedding in the village. Very suitable match.” Lady Pomfret nodded. She observed, out of the corner of her eye, that her son was pulling savagely at a small moustache. Lionel played one game of billiards with his father, and was handsomely beaten. Then he went to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed uneasily between his lavender-scented sheets, growing more and more irritable. Had Joyce gone out of his life? In India, upon a night much warmer than this, he had lain awake thinking of jolly hours spent alone with Joyce. They would fish and ride together, with lashin’s of tennis. Did she avoid him purposely? In the old days, she popped in and out of the Hall like a kitten. Was she waiting now to be asked formally to come to luncheon or tea? Could it be possible that she was engaged to this chemist? No, no, Hamlin was the last man to countenance a secret engagement; and Joyce was incapable of keeping a fact of such importance from her father. Moxon—confound him!—and Joyce were not engaged, but they might be in a few days or so. He got out of bed, lit a pipe, and cooled himself by the open window. A nightingale trilled a few notes, the broken song of late June. Lionel was in no sentimental mood. The nightingale singing to his mate provoked an absurd image of Moxon talking to Joyce about coal-tar products. He cursed Moxon; and ordered the nightingale to “shut up.” Then he laughed himself into a happier humour. Why should he care? Ten to one, he had found a mare’s nest. Girls were not enthusiastic about fellows they were fond of. Rather the contrary! Six to four Moxon was engaged to some freckle-faced lassie in Dundee. He felt remorse when the nightingale stopped singing. He leaned far out of the window and said clearly: “I’m sorry, old chap; you go on singing to your missus.” But the nightingale was huffed—and didn’t.