In Westring Vale, as everywhere, times were hard. It was now the property of Baruch Frankl: for at the first failure of Lord Westring to meet terms, Frankl had struck. Now, one of the yeomen of Westring was a certain Richard Hogarth. II THE FEZ Frankl took up residence at Westring in September, and by November every ale-house, market, and hiring in Westring had become a scene of discussion. The cause was this: Frankl had sent out to his tenants a Circular containing the words: “...tenants to use for wear in the Vale a _fez with tassel_ as the Livery of the Manor...the will of the Lord of the Manor...no exception...” But though intense, the excitement was not loud: for want was in many a home; though after three weeks there were still six farmers who resisted. And it happened one day that five of these at the Martinmas “Mop,” or hiring, were discussing the matter, when they spied the sixth boring his way, and one exclaimed: “Yonder goes Hogarth! Let's hear what _he's_ got to say!” and set to calling. Hogarth twisted, and came winning his way, taller than the crowd, with “What's up? Hullo, Clinton--not a moment to spare to-day--” “We were a-talking about that Circular--!” cried one. At that moment two other men joined the group: one a dark-skinned Jew of the Moghrabîm; the other a young man--an English author--on tour. And these two heard what passed. Hogarth stood suspended, finding no words, till one cried: “Do you mean to put the cap on?” He laughed a little now. “_I!_ The whip! The whip!”--he showed his hunting-crop, and was gone. His manner of speech was rapid, and he had a hoarse sort of voice, almost as of sore-throat. Of the two not farmers, one--the author--enquired as to his name, and farm; the other man--the Moghrabîm Jew--that evening recounted to Frankl the words which he had heard. * * * * * * * One afternoon, two weeks later, Loveday, the author, was leaning upon a stile, talking to Margaret Hogarth; and he said: “I love you! If you could _deign_--” “Truth is,” she said, “you are in love with my brother, Dick, and you think it is me!” She was a woman of twenty-five, large and buxom, though neat-waisted, her face beautifully fresh and wholesome, and he of middle-size, with a lazy ease of carriage, small eyes set far apart, a blue-velvet jacket, duck trousers very dirty, held up by a belt, a red shirt, an old cloth hat, a careless carle, greatly famed. “But it isn't of your brother, but of _you_, that I am wanting to speak! Tell me--” “No--I can't. I am a frivolous old woman to be talking to you about such things at all! But, since it is as you say, wait, perhaps I may be able--But I must be going now--” There was embarrassment in her now: and suddenly she walked away, going to meet--another man. She passed through stubble-wheat, disappeared in a pine-wood, and came out upon the Waveney towing-path. On the towing-path came Frankl to meet her.