"They've squatted," Banks said, "that's what they've done. Set themselves down here in the reign of Henry II., and sat tight ever since--grabbing commons and so on, now and again, in the usual way, of course. The village is called after them, Thorp-Jervaise, and the woods and the hills, and half the labourers in the neighbourhood have got names like Jarvey and Jarvis. What I mean is that the Jervaises mayn't be of any account in London, or even in the county, alongside of families like Lord Garthorne's; but just round here they're the owners and always have been since there have been any private owners. Their word's law. If you don't like it, you can get out, and that's all there is about it." He gazed thoughtfully in front of him and thrust out his lower lip. "I've got to get out," he added, "unless..." I hesitated to prompt him, fearing the possibly inquisitive sound of the most indirect question, and after what I felt was a very pregnant silence, he continued rather in the manner of one allusively submitting a case. "But you get to a point where you feel as if no game's worth winning if you can't play it fair and open." "So long as the other side play fair with you," I commented. "They can afford to," he returned. "They get every bit of pull there is to have. I told you we've been tenants of the Home Farm ever since there's been a Home Farm, but old Jervaise could turn my father out any time, at six months' notice. Would, too. Probably have to, for the sake of public opinion. Well, would you call that playing fair?" "I shouldn't," I said with emphasis. "Most people would," he replied gloomily. I was wondering what his own "pull" might be, the pull he would not use because the use of it conflicted with his ideal of playing the game. I was inclined, with a foolish romanticism to toy with the notion of some old blood relationship between the families of Jervaise and Banks--some carefully hidden scandal that might even throw a doubt on the present owner's right of proprietorship. I was still rebuilding that foolish, familiar story of the lost heir, when my new friend put an end to further speculation by saying,-- "But what's the good of thinking about that--yet? Why, I don't even know..." I could not resist a direct question this time. "Don't even know what?" I asked. "I was forgetting," he said. He got to his feet again, looked round for a moment, and then gave a yawn which seemed to spring from a nervous rather than a muscular origin. "No good my compromising you, just now," he said with a friendly smile. "You've probably guessed more, already, than'll be altogether convenient for you when you see the family at breakfast. Perhaps, we'll meet again some day." "I'm staying here till Monday," I said. "But I don't know if I am," he replied with a whimsical twist of his firm mouth. "Well, so long," he went on quickly. "Glad to have met you, anyway." He nodded with a repetition of that frank, engaging smile of his, and turned away.