"You're right there, Andy," commented old Mr. Dove, serenely happy in the knowledge of an ancient and good connection attaching to the Lion. "Oh, not particularly well?" Jack nodded with an air of what looked like satisfaction, though it would not be kind to Andy to be satisfied. "Playing lawn-tennis at Nutley, weren't you?" asked Chinks suddenly. All faces turned to Andy. "Yes, I was, Chinks," he said. "Half expected you to supper, Andy," said Jack Rock. "Sorry, Jack. I would have come if I'd been free. But--" "Well, where were you?" There was no help for it. "I was dining out, Jack." Andy's tone became as airy as he could make it, as careless, as natural. His effort in this kind was not a great success. "Harry Belfield asked me to Halton." A short silence followed. They were good fellows, one and all of them; nobody had a jibe for him; the envy, if envy there were, was even as his own for Harry Belfield. Cox looked round and raised his glass. "'Ere's to you, Andy! You went to the war, you went to foreign parts. If you've learned a bit and got on a bit, nobody in Meriton's goin' to grudge it you--least of all them as knew your good father, who was a gentleman if ever there was one--and I've known some of the best, consequent on my business layin' mainly with 'orses." "Dined at Halton, did you?" Old Jack Rock beamed, then suddenly grew thoughtful. "Well, of course, I've always known Harry Belfield, and--" He was apologizing. "The old gentleman used to dine there--once a year reg'lar," Jack reminded him. "Quite right of 'em to keep it up with you." But still Jack looked thoughtful. Eleven-thirty sounded from the squat tower of the long low church which presided over the west end--the Fyfold end--of High Street. Old Cox knocked out his pipe decisively. "Bedtime!" he pronounced. Nobody contested the verdict. Only across Andy's mind flitted an outlandish memory that it was the hour at which one sat down to supper at the great restaurant--with Harry, the Nun, sardonic Miss Dutton, Billy Foot, and London at large--and at liberty. "You stop a bit, my lad," said Jack with affection, also with a touch of old-time authority. "I've something to say to you, Andy." Andy stayed willingly enough; he liked Jack, and he was loth to end that day. Jack filled and pressed, lit, pressed, and lit again, a fresh clay pipe. "You like all that sort of thing, Andy?" he asked. "Oh, you know what I mean--what you've been doin' to-day." "Yes, I like it, Jack." Andy saw that his dear old friend--dear Nancy's brother--had something of moment on his mind. "But it don't count in the end. It's not business, Andy." Jack's tone had become, suddenly and strangely, persuasive, reasonably persuasive--almost what one might call coaxing. "I've never considered it in the light of business, Jack." "Don't let it turn you from business, Andy. You said the timber was worth about two hundred a year to you?"