Alone with Lionel, Lady Margot kept him talking, upon the sound principle that young men, as a rule, do not use speech to disguise thought and action. Also, she was interested in his theme. The chase, in its many phases, excited her. Half an hour passed swiftly. At the end of an hour she thought that she had his measure. She summed him up, temporarily, as “the nicest boy I’ve ever met.” Of her many instincts the maternal was probably the least developed, and yet, at this first meeting, she did feel motherly towards Lionel Pomfret. She owned as much to herself, and was much amused and indeed tickled by a new sensation. Lionel, she made sure, was plastic clay to the hand of a potter. His modesty and sincerity made a deep impression upon a young lady who, for some years, had carefully picked her cavaliers from men who were neither modest nor quite sincere. More unerringly she judged him to be no fool. He exhibited alertness and vitality—an excellent combination. He might, under discreet guidance, go far—as far as the Upper Chamber, for example. To be the wife of a peer may be a paltry ambition, but it must be remembered that Lady Margot was the only child of a great country magnate. Much that pertains to such a position had passed to her kinsman. Secretly she resented this. Her solicitors told her that a barony in abeyance might be terminated in her favour. No steps had been taken in such a direction. She made up her mind to wait till she was married. It is not so easy to describe Lionel’s judgment of her. Humbled after his experience with Moxon, he was willing to admit that his prejudice against an unknown girl had been absurd. Tom Challoner was big enough and stupid enough to shoulder the blame of that. The little lady, whose notoriety frightened him, was delightfully approachable. Already, he had slid into an easy intimacy. But did he like her? Would he get to like her? That question remained unanswered. They were alone together for a few minutes before dinner. He had noted the perfection of her motoring kit; he was not quite prepared for the fresh frock which she wore that first evening. When she sailed into the Long Saloon, he blinked. She came towards him laughing. “Tell me! Am I too smart?” Her quickness of wit disarmed him. She had seen him blink. And she knew that the frock was a thought too smart for a family party. He lied like a gentleman. “Too smart? Of course not.” She displayed it, making a pirouette. She might have been an ingénue gowned for her first ball, an artless nymph of seventeen. No nymph, however, of tender years could have thought out her next sentence— “I wanted my frock to be worthy of this lovely room.” “By George! it is.” “Very many thanks. Is that a Reisener cabinet?” “I don’t know. It’s French, I believe.” “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And you don’t know?” Her sprightliness infected him. “Perhaps, like my mother, I prefer persons to things.”