Sir Jasper, moving in this fire of chatter, a lady on each arm and Miss Lesbia Ogle hanging on his coat-tails, appeared at the barn-door when he believed his guests to be assembled. The merry tune to which Lady Bab had alluded fell silent at his approach; there were curtseys and dips and bows on every side, while the three fiddlers mopped their streaming faces and, rising as one man from the wooden bench on which they had been seated in a row, duly ducked their shock heads to their patron. Sir Jasper gave condescending smiles and short, indifferent nods right and left, the while his eyes roamed, seeking, this way and that. Here was old Mother Pounce, right enough, as large as one of her own feather beds, in a lace cap, if you please, mighty genteel, with lavender knots. And Farmer Pounce in his red waistcoat; confound the fellow, with his air of independence! Aye, was there not a sort of triumph about him? Don’t cry till you’re out of the wood, Mr. Yeoman! And split him, what a row of young Pounces--a fine healthy litter! And, ’pon honour, a monstrous pretty little chit in white muslin with a straw hat! Pshaw! He had no time to waste on silly seventeen. Where was their agreeable bone of contention; where was the handsome Pamela? “How, now, yeoman, where is your elder daughter?” “At home, Sir Jasper,” answered the father, with the brevity that declines discussion. “Sure, Sir Jasper,” put in Mrs. Pounce, conciliatingly. “My daughter was vastly obleeged, but she was a trifle fatigued this evening.” “She would stay and look after our Tom,” piped Susie. “She preferred not to come, sir,” said Yeoman Pounce, frowning. Sir Jasper’s brow had likewise gathered thunder-clouds. His eyes rolled inward. One excuse contradicted another; the farmer’s insolence voiced the truth. And Master Jocelyn Bellairs, who had not accompanied his host to the dance, because forsooth, it might be difficult for him to keep his honourable pledge--Master Jocelyn Bellairs, who had announced his intention of taking a pleasure stroll this freezing Christmas night--Master Jocelyn Bellairs, whose very presence at Standish Hall demanded explanation; who was practically a self-invited visitor, where was he? Pshaw, did they take him for a fool? Was he to be mocked in his own house and jockeyed by his own guest? Zounds! The whole plot was clear in a minute. A plot it was; no wonder Mr. Bellairs had that insufferable air of certainty. He and his lady-love would soon be laughing over the thought of how they had swindled him of a thousand guineas. And what a spending time they would have together! If the revelation came swift as lightning to Sir Jasper, no less swiftly did he make up his mind for action. It was a three-mile walk to Pitfold Farm. He would have out his curricle, and his bloods, and be beforehand with Bellairs.