“Thanks again. But, frankly, I’m amazed. This room is full of beautiful furniture—all of different periods, too. But that doesn’t matter. Really good bits, if they have age to them, never bark at each other. Those pastels are adorable.” Lionel flushed a little. “I know nothing of them, either.” She shrugged her shoulders. In her hand was a fan, for the night was hot. She tapped his arm with the fan, and then opened it deftly, glancing at him over the edge of it. “But, positively, I must teach you. It will be great fun. We’ll play ‘swaps.’ I could write an article on ‘tufting’ and ‘slots’ and ‘laying on the pack.’ But I don’t know growing wheat from barley.” (She did.) “I’ll go to school with you, if you’ll go to school with me?” “Done,” said Lionel. “My hand on it.” They were shaking hands, as Sir Geoffrey came in. Lady Pomfret followed with a murmured apology: “My dear, forgive me! The Squire and I are seldom late for dinner.” The Squire added a few words. “You see we don’t treat you too ceremoniously.” Fishpingle’s sonorous tones were heard. “Dinner is served, Sir Geoffrey.” * * * * * During dinner, and afterwards, Lady Margot made herself vastly agreeable to the three Pomfrets. If effort underlay her sprightly civilities, it was not visible. Her enemies—and she had some—affirmed that her consistent good temper and wish to please were indications of selfishness. Any deviation from the broad and easy path which she trod so gaily meant personal discomfort. But if her tact in avoiding conversational brambles provoked gibes from cynics, her _joie de vivre_ disarmed them. And coming, as she did, to Pomfret Court at a moment when Lionel was feeling exasperatingly hipped and bored with himself she served alike as tonic and narcotic. She lulled to sleep nervous introspections; she stimulated energies which found expression in sport and games. He had wanted some one to “play about with.” Lady Margot presented herself. He soon decided that she was not flirtatious, as that word is interpreted in India. Physically, she kept men at a respectful distance, disdaining furtive pressures of the hand, languishing glances—all the cheap wiles of the provincial beauty. Mentally, so to speak, she “nestled up.” Lionel felt more and more at his ease with her. She laughed derisively when he touched hesitatingly upon his perplexties. Such worries, she assured him lightly, were the common heritage of eldest sons of magnates. She propounded her own easy philosophy, so practical in its way, so alluring. Position had its responsibilities. It existed, if you like, on sufferance. But authorty—for which by birth and training she was a stickler—would be disastrously weakened and in the end wrecked, if it indulged too freely in sentimental vagabondage. Their caste repudiated sentiment, scrapped it ruthlessly. For the masses—“panem et Circenses.”