A brisk masculine voice volleyed through the shrubbery: "Young Morton! I say, young Morton!" "It's Mr. Lambert," she breathed. "Go quick." George remembered what Sylvia had said about someone else having the strength. "Can't you guess, Ma, what the young lady's brother wants of me?" The bitterness left his face. His smile was engaging. "To give me the devil." "Young Morton! Young Morton!" "Coming!" he called. "George," she begged, "don't have any trouble with Mr. Lambert." III She watched him with anxious eyes, failing to observe, because she was his mother, details that informed his boasts with power. His ancestry of labour had given him, at least, his straight, slender, and unusually muscular body, and from somewhere had crept in the pride, just now stimulated, with which he carried it. His wilful, regular features, moreover, guarded by youth, were still uncoarsened. He found Lambert Planter waiting beyond the old boundary behind a screen of bushes, his hands held behind his back. In his face, which had some of Sylvia's beauty, hardened and enlarged, dwelt the devil George had foreseen. George nodded, feeling all at once at ease. He could take care of himself in an argument with Lambert Planter. No such distances separated them as had widened beyond measure a little while back between him and Sylvia. He wondered if that conception sprang from Lambert, or if it came simply from the fact that they were two men, facing each other alone; for it was from the first patent that Sylvia had asked her brother to complete a punishment she had devised as fitting, but which she had been incapable of carrying out herself. Lambert, indeed, brought his hands forward, disclosing a whip. It was a trifle in his way as he took off his coat. "That's right," George said. "Make yourself comfortable." "You won't help matters by being impertinent, Morton." Lambert's voice contrasted broadly with George's round, loud tones. While, perhaps, not consciously affected, its accents fell according to the custom of the head master of a small and particular preparatory school. George crushed his instinct to mock. What the deuce had he craved ever since his encounter with Sylvia unless it was to be one with men like Lambert Planter? So all he said was: "What's the whip for?" "You know perfectly well," Lambert answered. "There's no possible excuse for what you said and did this afternoon. I am going to impress that on you." "You mean you want a fight?" "By no means. I wouldn't feel comfortable fighting a man like you. I'd never dreamed we had such a rotten person on the place. Oh, no, Morton. I'm going to give you a good horse-whipping." George's chin went out. His momentary good-humour fled. "If you touch me with that whip I'm likely to kill you."