“Did you tell me you wanted to hear? I had the butter on my mind,” said Simon, calmly. And then, of all people in the world, Joscelyn himself came suddenly in sight, round the corner of the house. “What’s wrong?” he said. “Has Simon been doing errands down in the village, Joan, or what are you wanting with him out here?” Joan’s heart swelled with a momentary impulse of wrath. It was doubtful for the moment whether she would seize the occasion and let him have her mind, as she had to do sooner or later; but Simon went on with his slow sing-song almost without a pause. “It’s the butter, master. I’ve been down the town with the butter. Maybe you’ll speak to Miss Joan no to be so particular; as if I was wan that would cheat the family. I’ve aye been exact in my accounts.” This was a shot that went both ways, for Simon did not like Joan’s talent for accounts. He preferred to go by rule of thumb, and count out to her, so much from the “Red Lion,” so much from Dr. Selby’s, a shilling here and a shilling there, paying down each coin as he gave the list; whereas Joan liked it all in black and white. When he had said this he hobbled on quietly to the back door, leaving the father and daughter together. Joscelyn looked at her with a momentary keen scrutiny. “You’re sending that old fellow upon your errands: and I would like to know what they are,” he said. “If I’m not to send what errands I please, it’ll be better for me to go away as well,” she replied. “What do you mean by _as well_? I’ll have no go-betweens, and no mysteries here,” he said. But Joan was not in a mood to seize the opportunity and speak out, as she had intended, on the first chance. She was exasperated, not simply angry. She gave him an indignant look, and turned round without a word. Now Joscelyn was himself uneasy at what he had done. He was not quite without human feeling, and he had reflected much since upon what might have happened. He did not know what had happened; he had not mentioned the circumstance of the previous night; but his mind had not been free. He wanted information, though he would not ask for it. When his wife had let Joan in, in the middle of the night, he had supposed that Harry, too, must have crept to bed like her, allowing himself to be vanquished. That he had not appeared at breakfast was nothing extraordinary; but even Joscelyn himself was eager to know what had happened now. “Hey, Joan,” he cried; “hey, come back, I want to speak to you. What have you done with that young fool?”