He saw that her mind was in tumult, but by no means altogether because of the trouble she had got into with her father and the others. In any case she had an inextinguishable obstinacy. It appears that she had come back alone across the Lake in a boat, pre-occupied, lovely with the flush of her thoughts, only to find herself when she stepped on shore among grave and resentful faces. Her father was indoors. “Naturally,” she said, “he would never question me before all the others. He and I have always had our quarrels in private.” Ruby, too, was indoors. It was the incredible Sprot, almost dancing with the pleasure of his accusing thoughts, who put the question: “Where have you been?” She looked round at Fulke, in her eyes a command that Sprot should die. But there had been a change in Fulke, and he only glowered at her. Quentin answered her appeal with a grin of somewhat resentful amusement. She had therefore to speak for herself: “Mr. Sprot, I am sorry to learn that you have to leave us.” “What on earth do you mean?” he stammered. “I am not leaving. Your father has not said so.” “I have said so.” “I won’t leave.” He squared up. “And what will you do about it?” “If I see you anywhere about to-morrow morning I shall ask Yuan to attend to you.” She went to the Pavilion, and they all watched her walking with bent head across the lawn. Then they turned to consider the case of Sprot, who was palely protesting that he would in no circumstances go. “Especially,” said Quentin pleasantly, “with the country in its present state, when the traveller is more than likely to meet with robbery and violent outrage.” “I appeal to you.” Sprot clasped, as it were, the knees of Sir Richard Frew-Gaff. But Sir Richard politely regretted that he could do nothing, and walked away. Sprot exploded. “It’s perfectly scandalous that hard-working, reasonable-minded men should be at the beck and call of a piece of goods like that! Why does everyone pay so much attention to her, I should like to be told. She doesn’t work. She doesn’t produce anything. What right has she to say what shall be? Walking off like a sprig of lilac with a ‘You clear out!’ and all—her and her fat-faced Chink. It’s my opinion....” “We don’t want your opinion,” said Fulke morosely. “Yes, we do. You run away and weep with your Ruby,” said Quentin, with a wink to the rest. Fulke flared. “You shut up, you stinking mud-pump! I’ve had just about enough of your interference.” “No naughty temper,” said Quentin, and being strong, though a sinner, he immersed young righteousness in the Lake.