The Squire repeated what Ben had said, with pardonable accretions. Lady Pomfret remained perfectly calm. He continued vehemently: “Ben has the impudence to disapprove. He would like to see Lionel marrying a milkmaid.” “Surely he never said that?” “I think he said it, or I said it. No matter! He flung at my head that ignominious marriage of young Fordingbridge.” “Was it ignominious? The end—twins—seems to have justified the means.” “Tchah! Well, Mary, you think as I do, bless you! so I shan’t ask for your opinion. Ben has great influence with Lionel.” “Has he?” “Of course he has. Ben—damn him!—I beg your pardon, Mary!—might conceivably queer our pitch.” “Oh dear, no!” “You reassure me. But you know, Mary, I have always had an odd presentiment that Lionel might stick a knife into me.” Lady Pomfret lost her composure for an instant. She said emphatically: “That presentiment is preposterous.” The Squire continued at an easier pace, ambling forward to his objective. “I mean this, my dear. We know our dear Lionel. He is a good boy, a nice affectionate son:——” “That and much more,” murmured the mother. “I quite agree, but I am not blind to his—a—limitations. He talks with Tom, Dick, and Harry. I have his word for it. He talks with that pestilent parson.” Lady Pomfret protested. Protest, she was well aware, might be wasted, but, being the woman she was, she had to make it. “Mr. Hamlin is not pestilent. He is like you—” “What?” “He has the courage to speak his opinions regardless of the effect produced on his listeners.” “Um! You accuse me of that? I am astonished. I flatter myself that I don’t impose my opinions upon others. However, let that pass. Where was I? Yes, yes, pray don’t interrupt me for a minute! Lionel is too absorbent, a bit of a chameleon, what? He likes to hear both sides. I don’t blame him, but there it is. Having heard both sides, poor boy! he gets rather dazed. Conditions in our rural districts daze him—and no wonder. He asks where he is?” “Surely you can tell him.” She smiled again. “I’m dashed if I can. That’s the trouble. He’s a weathercock out of order. And he can’t, as yet, get at the root of things. He failed with those Mucklows. It is humiliating to reflect that Ben found out the trouble at once, and put it right. I gave the boy a free hand. Why didn’t he dig out the truth? Now, I’ve lost my point. I was heading for what?” “You said something absurd about Lionel sticking a knife into you.” “So I did. Lionel, with his too loose ideas——You know, Mary, the army is not what it was in my time. Even in good regiments you’ll find a taint of demagogy, the trail of the serpent. Have I lost my point again? No. Lionel wrote regularly to little Joyce Hamlin. She wrote to him. She’s a deuced pretty girl.” “So Mr. Moxon thought.” “I hope Moxon will get her. But—this is my point—I want to hammer it well home—Lionel might fall in love with just such a bread-and-butter miss as Joyce.”