"Well, no," he said at last. "I admit he's difficult to catch. He likes his own ways a great deal better than other people's. But if you do catch him--if you do persuade him--well, then you can stake your bottom dollar on him. At least, that's my experience. He's been awfully generous about land here--put a lot in my hands to distribute long before the war ended. Some of the neighbours about--other landlords--were very sick--thought he'd given them away because of the terms. They sent him a round robin. I doubt if he read it. In a thing like that he's adamant. And he's adamant, too, when he's once taken a real dislike to anybody. There's no moving him." "You make me afraid!" said Mrs. Friend. "Oh, no, you needn't be--" Mr. Alcott turned almost eagerly to look at her. "I hope you won't be. He's the kindest of men. It's extraordinarily kind of him--don't you think?"--the speaker smilingly lowered his voice--"taking on Miss Pitstone like this? It's a great responsibility." Mrs. Friend made the slightest timid gesture of assent. "Ah, well, it's just like him. He was devoted to her mother--and for his friends he'll do anything. But I don't want to make a saint of him. He can be a dour man when he likes--and he and I fight about a good many things. I don't think he has much faith in the new England we're all talking about--though he tries to go with it. Have you?" He turned upon her suddenly. Mrs. Friend felt a pang. "I don't know anything," she said, and he was conscious of the agitation in her tone. "Since my husband died, I've been so out of everything." And encouraged by the kind eyes in the plain face, she told her story, very simply and briefly. In the general clatter and hubbub of the table no one overheard or noticed. "H'm--you're stepping out into the world again as one might step out of a nunnery--after five years. I rather envy you. You'll see things fresh. Whereas we--who have been through the ferment and the horror--" He broke off--"I was at the front, you see, for nearly two years--then I got invalided. So you've hardly realized the war--hardly known there was a war--not since--since Festubert?" "It's dreadful!" she said humbly--"I'm afraid I know just nothing about it." He looked at her with a friendly wonder, and she, flushing deeper, was glad to see him claimed by a lively girl on his left, while she fell back on Mr. Parish, the agent, who, however, seemed to be absorbed in the amazing--and agreeable--fact that Lord Buntingford, though he drank no wine himself, had yet some Moet-et-Charidon of 1904 left to give to his guests. Mr. Parish, as he sipped it, realized that the war was indeed over.