“Dear Lady Pomfret, you are so clever, but indeed you are mistaken. Sir Geoffrey, oddly enough, this very morning, seemed surprised when I told him that I was not bored. I ask you, as I asked him—do I look bored?” Lady Pomfret laughed, partly because it was pleasant to reflect that her hand had not lost its cunning. “I have read somewhere, my dear, that you are an accomplished amateur actress. We have never entertained a visitor so easily. Indeed, you have entertained—us! At least, we might have invited some of our neighbours to meet so agreeable a guest.” “I feared that. I dared to hint as much to the Squire.” “The wretch never told me.” “I wanted to rest, to gloat in this quiet paradise. To fortify myself.” “For what?” The quiet question brought a faint flush to Margot’s pale cheeks, but she replied vivaciously: “Against my autumn visits, a dreary round, which no longer sufficies me. The people I know are too aggressive, too neurotic, too jumpy. I have chosen my friends—if you can call them that—not very wisely. My own fault. This last season was trying. One must keep up with the procession, and it simply races along.” Lady Pomfret felt sorry for her, pity welled into her kind eyes and suffused her voice. Margot looked so small, so frail. Take from her the trappings of her position, and what was left? A motherless young woman, who, admittedly, had chosen the wrong friends. She murmured softly— “Poor little Margot! You make me sad. But I am glad that you think of this,” her glance wandered round the peaceful garden, “as a sanctuary.” “I do. I do. Why didn’t we meet before?” * * * * * During the two days that followed this confidential talk with her hostess, Margot spun webs in that dainty parlour, her heart, now swept and garnished for the reception of Lionel. She encouraged him to talk freely, ever watchful and ready to steer him out of the troubled waters of introspection and windy conjecture into the snug harbourage of a practical prosperity. Lionel had read the books and pamphlets lent by Fishpingle. And Fishpingle had warned him that they were one-sided, written by men who had suffered abuses, who card-indexed flagrant instances with something of the same gusto which animates collectors of pornographic engravings. It was quite easy for Margot to deal with such propaganda. More, her knowledge impressed him. She presented the other side with a suavity in pleasing contrast to the acerbity of the pamphleteers. If she stickled for Authority, as she did, she garbed it in motley. Very cleverly, she laid stress upon the necessity of loyalty to their own order. “You can’t destroy your own nest, Lionel. Make no mistake! These demagogues mean to wipe us out, if they can. If they do,” she shrugged her shoulders, “it will be largely due to our indolence and indifference. We may have to fight with their bludgeons. My father advocated a Union of Landed Gentry.” “Why not?” asked Lionel.