"Get him away, and keep him away." The words danced before the girl’s eyes. She was conscious of no anger against John Morrison: merely of a stunned surprise. The thing was so totally unexpected. "Of his capabilities as the boss of Frenton’s, other people have already decided." And even as she read and re-read the sentence, she found that she was actually asking herself the question—"Was it so totally unexpected after all?" That matters should have come to a head in such an abrupt way was a staggering shock: but ... She crumpled the note into her bag once more, and walked slowly towards the waiting cars. A hundred little half-defined thoughts came crowding in on her memory: a hundred little things which had not struck her at the time—or was it that she hadn’t allowed them to strike her?—now arrayed themselves in massed formation in front of her. She paused with her foot on the step of the car. The Honourable Herbert was solicitously bending over a stout and boring aunt of hers, and she watched him dispassionately. "Of his capabilities as a husband you must decide for yourself." Impertinent.... And yet she was not conscious of any resentment. "Come up to lunch, Herbert," she said, as he stepped over to her. "I want to talk to you afterwards." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "I shall be very busy this afternoon, dear." "I think the works will stand your absence for one afternoon," she remarked quietly, and he bit his lip. "I’ll be there, Marjorie." He fumbled with her rug. "One o’clock sharp, I suppose." He stood back, and the cars rolled off. "What a charming man your fiancé is, my dear!" cooed the elderly female sitting beside Marjorie. "So polite: so ... so ... impressive." The girl smiled a little absently, and nodded. "Impressive...." It struck her that the word exactly described Herbert. He was impressive. And then because she was loyal clean through, she started to fan herself into a furious rage at the abominable impertinence of this wretched man John Morrison. Herbert was right: he was an insubordinate swine.... How dare he—how _dare he_—hand her such a note! He ought to be sacked at once. She would tell Herbert about it after lunch, and he would explain matters. Of course he would explain—of course.... John Frenton was standing on the steps as the cars drove up, and impulsively she went up to him. "Herbert is coming to lunch, daddy," she cried, putting her arm through his. "Is he, darling," said the old man, patting her hand. "That’s all right." He turned to the rest of the party as they came up. "Well—what do you think of my works? None in England to beat ’em, my friends, not if you search from John o’ Groats to Land’s End. And as for a strike, it’s unknown, sir, unknown.... My men don’t do it, whatever other firms may do."