During the fortnight which elapsed before the arrival of the “dasher,” Lionel saw Joyce nearly every afternoon, but rarely alone. She played tennis with him, for Lionel and she were a match for Hamlin’s eldest son and Moxon. Between the sets she would chatter unconcernedly. It jumped to the eye that Moxon was paying her attention. And Lionel couldn’t help liking Moxon, although he described the hounds, when they visited the kennels, as “a nice lot of dogs wagging their tails.” Moxon, however, talked admirably, and Joyce listened with exasperating deference. He had brought his motor to the Vicarage, and appeared to be a man of ample means. When Lionel said as much to the Squire, that hypercritic perpetrated a joke. “If his means are as large as his ends, he must be very rich.” This was in allusion to Moxon’s hands and feet, points about which the Squire was particular. But he, too, liked Moxon, who proved to be “knowledgable” about fertilisers and intensive culture, and amiably willing to impart information whenever he was asked for it. Moreover, the possibility of any wedding in Nether-Applewhite brought out all that was best in the Squire. He kept on repeating to Lionel: “A very suitable match. I hope it will come about.” “I don’t,” said Lionel, spurred to protest by this repetition. “Joyce might do better than Moxon. He’s clever as he can stick, and not a bad chap, but—well, he’s Moxon. And I should think his people in Dundee are as sticky as their own marmalade.” “I dare say. I repeat again—a very suitable match for Joyce. Her father is sticky. Now don’t argue with me, Lionel! It is nothing to us whom Joyce marries.” He glanced keenly at his son, watching the effect of this sly thrust. Lionel riposted imperturbably: “That won’t do, father, coming from you. Everybody knows what a matchmaker you are. And, by the way, that reminds me. Alfred confided to me that he wanted to marry Prudence, and that you objected. Can’t you see your way to withdraw your objection.” “Most certainly not. Bless my soul! What are we coming to? I settled that affair with Ben before you came home. I sent a message to the little baggage through Ben. No mutiny in my house.” “But, father, if they really love each other, poor dears!” “Love! Tchah! I tell you this, boy, any healthy young man can love a dozen young women.” “All at once, father?” “You know what I mean. This ‘sighing and yearning and clinging and burning’ for one person of the opposite sex is ridiculous—preposterous.” “I see. If you hadn’t captured mother, any other young woman would have done just as well.” This disarmed the Squire. He laughed heartily and clapped Lionel on the shoulder. “That was a good ’un, my boy. Dammy! you stuck me through the heart. But I wasn’t speaking of the quality. It doesn’t do to say it in these democratic times, but, between you and me, our Wiltshire labourers are not far removed from animals. I speak of what I know.” “And whose fault is that?”