Montagu, still standing in the middle of the road, was indeed a deplorable figure: covered from head to foot with mud and blood, with a singing in his ears, and an extremely sore eye, he looked about as disreputable an object as could be imagined. Mr. Wycherly stood back and regarded him curiously. "We must go home," he said, "and it is to be hoped that we shall not meet many people on the way. Here’s a handkerchief; just try and mop that unfortunate nose of yours. What Miss Esperance will say, my dear Montagu, I really cannot imagine." They turned homeward, and had not gone many yards when they met the Misses Moffat, who stopped, holding up their hands in horror at Montagu’s appearance. Mr. Wycherly had never yet spoken to them and would fain have passed them now with a courteous salutation. But it was not to be. They closed in upon him and Montagu, both asking at once what dreadful mishap had occurred. Mr. Wycherly again lifted his hat. "The fact is," he said, "Montagu has been engaged in the rough and tumble. There has been a great deal of tumble and a fair amount of rough. But no serious damage has been done. I think, however, that the sooner he gets home and changes the better." And yet again lifting his hat and holding out his hand to Montagu, he prepared to go on his way. But the Misses Moffat were not satisfied. "And you let him fight?" Miss Maggie exclaimed reproachfully. "Oh, sir! do you think it was right?" "Yes, madam," Mr. Wycherly answered boldly. "I think it would have been wrong to interfere." "But you did interfere," Montagu exclaimed in injured tones. "I’d have killed him if you hadn’t." "Killed who?" shrieked Miss Jeanie. "But this is dreadful——" "I really think," Mr. Wycherly interposed, "that we must get back at once. Good-day to you—good-day." And seizing Montagu’s hand, he fairly ran from the Misses Moffat in the direction of Remote. Miss Esperance met them at the gate. When she caught sight of Montagu, she, too, gazed in wonder and consternation, and ran out to them, crying, "What has happened? Has he been run over? Is he badly hurt?" "This," said Mr. Wycherly, pointing to Montagu, "is the result, my dear Miss Esperance, of a sudden manifestation of—the Bethune temperament." Miss Esperance flushed a most beautiful pink. She stooped and kissed her great-nephew’s most uninviting-looking countenance. "He has been fighting," she said quietly, "and I fear he has had the worst of it." "That I didn’t," the belligerent one exclaimed joyously. "I’d have killed him quite dead if Guardie hadn’t stopped me. He wouldn’t let me." "Who was it?" Miss Esperance asked with breathless interest. "Jamie Broun; he was rude. His father makes wheels and things, you know." "Come and get cleaned, my dear, dear boy. It’s very wrong to fight, but sometimes—in a good cause, it maybe necessary. Come away in." And Miss Esperance walked up the garden path with her arm round Montagu’s neck.