Wellgood did not know at all how quickly matters had moved. He was still asking about the sin--the aberration; he was not up to date with Isobel's renunciation or Harry's comfortable penitence. Nor was he of the school that accepts such things without sound proof. "Lead us not into temptation" was all very well in church; in secular life, if you suspected a servant of dishonesty, you marked a florin and left it on the mantelpiece. Had Isobel been already his wife, he would have locked her up in the nearest approach to a tower of brass that modern conditions permit; if Vivien had been already Harry's wife, he would no doubt have been in favour of Harry's being kept out of the way of dangerous seductions. But now, whether as father or as lover--and the father continued to afford the lover most valuable aid, most specious cover--he had first to know, to test, and to try. He had to leave his marked florin on the mantelpiece. It must not, however, be supposed that Meriton lacked problems because Harry Belfield seemed, for the moment at all events, to cease to present one. For days past Billy Foot had been grappling with a most momentous one, and Mrs. Belfield's mind was occupied, and almost disturbed, by another of equal gravity. Curiously enough, the two related to the same person, and were to some degree of a kindred nature. Both involved the serious question of the social status--or perhaps the social desirability would be a better term--of Miss Doris Flower. In the leisure hours and the autumn sunshine of Meriton--an atmosphere remote from courts, whether of law or of royalty, and inimical to ambition--Billy was in danger of forgetting the paramount claims of his career and of remembering only the remarkable prettiness of Miss Flower. He was once more "on the brink"; the metaphor of a plunge found a place in his thoughts as well as in Isobel Vintry's; some metaphors are very maids-of-all-work. He was deplorably perturbed. Now that the great campaign was over he abandoned himself to the great question. He even went up to London to talk it over with Gilly, entertaining his brother to lunch--by no means a casual or haphazard hospitality, for Gilly's meals were serious business--in order to obtain his most inspired counsel. But Gilly had been abominably, nay, cruelly disappointing. "I shouldn't waste any more time thinking about that, old chap," said Gilly, delicately dissecting a young partridge. "You're not going out of your way to be flattering. It appears to me at least to be a matter of some importance whom I marry. I thought perhaps my brother might take that view too." "Oh, I do, old chap. I know it's devilish important to you. All I mean is that in this particular case you needn't go about weighing the question. Ask the Nun right off." "You really advise it?" Billy demanded, wrinkling his brow in judicial gravity, but inwardly rather delighted.