"And precious little satisfaction I've got out of it," grumbled the squire. "You've always been a kicker." He broke off as a knock came at the door, and turned away with an impatient fling. "Who is it? Come in!" The door opened. Juliet stood on the threshold. The evening light fell full upon her. She was dressed in cloudy grey that fell about her in soft folds. Her face was flushed, but quite serene. "Mrs. Fielding wants to know if you have forgotten dinner," she said. The squire's face changed magically. He smiled upon Juliet. "Come in, Miss Moore! You've met this pestilent pedagogue before, I think." "Just once or twice," said Juliet, coming forward. "How is the ankle?" said Green. She smiled at him without embarrassment. "Oh, better, thank you. It was only a wrench." "Hurt yourself?" questioned Fielding. "No, no. It's really nothing. I slipped in the park and nearly sprained my ankle--just not quite," said Juliet. "And Mr. Green very kindly helped me into shelter before the storm broke." "Did he?" said the squire and looked at Green searchingly. "Well, Mr. Green, you'd better stay and dine as you are here." "You're very kind," Dick said. "I don't know whether I ought. I'm not dressed." "Of course you ought!" said Fielding testily. "Come on and wash! Your clothes won't matter--we're alone. That is, if Miss Moore doesn't object to sitting down with blue serge." "I have no objection whatever," said Juliet. She was looking from one to the other with a slightly puzzled expression. "What is it?" said Fielding, pausing. His look was kindly. Juliet laughed. "I don't know. I feel as I felt that day you caught me trespassing. Am I trespassing, I wonder?" "No!" said Fielding and Green in one breath. She swept them a deep Court courtesy. "Thank you, gentlemen! With your leave I will now withdraw." The squire was at the door. He bowed her out with ceremony, watched her cross the hall, then sharply turned his head. Green was watching her also, but, keen as the twist of a rapier in the hand of a practised fencer, his eyes flashed to meet the squire's. Fielding smiled grimly. He motioned him forward, gripped him by the arm, and drew him out of the ream. They mounted the shallow oak stairs side by side. At the top in a tense whisper Fielding spoke. "Don't you be a fool, Richard! Don't you be a damn' fool!" Dick's laugh had in it a note that was not of mirth. "All right, sir, I'll do my best," he said. It was a drawn battle, and they both knew it. By tacit consent neither referred to the matter again. CHAPTER IV A POINT OF HONOUR