He leaned towards her, and she saw that tears were in his eyes, that he was torn, as he said, by an emotion and sensibility for which she had not given him credit. Everything that was best and most womanly in her welled up in flood. At that moment she knew that she loved him because he had come to her in his hour of need. But her self-control was greater than his. She looked at him with undimmed eyes, although tears gushed into her heart. And the swift thought flashed through her brain that if this was a representative of country gentlemen they could ill be spared. Another thought as swiftly took its place. She had wondered more than once why such a woman as Lady Pomfret had devoted her life to such a man as the Squire. Not that she underestimated what was fine in him. But he seemed a coarser clay, too massive a personality, too autocratic, for a gentlewoman of superlative quality. Now she knew instinctively. The Squire, as a young man, had been like Lionel—sincere, impulsive, full of vitality, and with that same appeal radiating from him, the appeal for guidance, the stronger the more appealing, when the woman recognises her ability to supply what is lacking, a lack of which the man himself may be quite unconscious. Prosperity had changed Sir Geoffrey, not for the better. What effect would adversity have upon him and his son? But he had asked for advice. What counsel could she give him? She laid down her sewing, clasping her hands upon her lap. “I am afraid,” she said. “You put upon me a responsibility. Father says people ought to be careful of giving advice because so often it is taken.” “I shall at least try to follow your advice, Joyce.” “What is my advice?” she asked with almost passion. “What is it worth—nothing. I am only an echo. You asked me the other day if you ought to leave the army. I have lain awake trying to answer that question.” It was a dangerous admission, and he leapt eagerly upon it. “Have you? Lain awake, eh?” His voice thrilled. “That was sweet of you.” Her tone became normal—practical. She held herself well in hand, smiling faintly. “I repeat I am an echo. I remember what others say, and what I have read. Work will save you and yours, Lionel, undivided energies concentrated upon problems which are far beyond me. There has been one steadfast worker upon the Pomfret property—Fishpingle.” “I know. He’s amazing.” “Your father,” she continued, treading delicately, “has kept the traditions of his order. He has not neglected county and parish duties. Father gives him unstinted credit for that. He has worked very faithfully for others, but——” “But——” “How can I criticise him to you? It seems such impertinence.” “Joyce, if you are a true friend, you will say everything that is in your heart.”