She was ruffled, and so much so that Lancelot noticed it, and, being the very soul of tact where she was concerned, spoke neither of his father nor of Urquhart all the morning. In the afternoon the weather seemed more settled, and he allowed himself more play. He would like to see Mr. Urquhart on horseback, in a battle, he thought. He expected he'd be like Henry of Navarre. Lucy thought that he might be. Would he wear a white plume though? Much head-shaking over this. "Bareheaded, I bet you. He's just that sort. Dashing about! Absolutely reckless!--frightfully dangerous!--a smoking sword!--going like one o'clock! Oh, I bet you what you like." Then with startling conviction, "Father doesn't like him. Feels scored off, I expect. He wasn't though, but he might be, all the same ... I think Father always expects he's going to be scored off, don't you? At any minute." Lucy set herself to combat this hazard, which was very amusing and by no means a bad shot. Poor James! What a pity it was that he couldn't let himself like anybody. It was true--it was quite true--he was afraid of being scored off. She husbanded a sigh. "Poor James!" To pity James was a new experience. She felt all the better for it, and was able to afford a lighter hand when they met at dinner. It may even be that James himself had thought the time come for a little relaxation of _askesis_, or he may have had something to forestall: he seldom spoke of his affairs without design. At any rate, he told her that Francis Lingen had been with him, and that Urquhart was likely to be of use. "I've written to him, anyhow. He will do as he thinks well. Urquhart is a sharp man of business." Lucy said, "He struck me so. I thought that he could never have any doubt of his own mind." James wriggled his eyeglass, to wedge it more firmly. "Ah, you noticed that? Very acute of you, Lucy. We may have a meeting before long--to arrange the whole thing.... It's a lot of money ... ten thousand pounds.... Your Francis is an expensive young man ... or let's say _ci-devant jeune homme_." "Why do you call him 'my' Francis?" she asked--rather mischievous than artless. The eyeglass dropped with a click and had to be sought. "Well, I can hardly call him _mine_, could I?" "I don't see why he should be anybody's," said Lucy, "except his own." "My dear girl," said Macartney, "_himself_ is the last person he belongs to. Francis Lingen will always belong to somebody. I must say that he has chosen very wisely. You do him a great deal of good." "That's very nice of you," she said. "I own that I like Francis Lingen. He's very gentle, not too foolish, and good to look at. You must own that he's extremely elegant." "Oh," said James, tossing up his foot, "elegant! He is what his good Horace would have called 'a very pretty fellow'--and what I call 'a nice girl.'" "I'm sure he isn't worth so much savagery," Lucy said. "You are like Ugolino--and poor Francis is your _fiero pasto_."