"Oh, but I shall be quite disappointed in you if you don't become Lord Chancellor," persisted Lady Mary, in her most girlish vein. "How dreadfully ancient we shall both be when you reach that exalted position. And then, think of your wife, she will be the first female subject in the kingdom. The Archbishop of Canterbury's wife doesn't count at all, although the Archbishop goes before you. Isn't it comical?" Farquhar fell in with her humorous mood. They had come from the house of mourning, but the poor old General had been very little to them. It was Isobel who stirred a generous chord of sympathy in their hearts. And Isobel was young, she had a lover, and she would recover shortly. The young do not mourn for ever after the old. Such is the inexorable law of nature. They met again at dinner. The good understanding, begun at tea, was further cemented. "You are going to be a sort of relation, in addition to being at least Attorney-General, or a police magistrate, or something of that sort," said Lady Mary at the conclusion of the meal. "Do you shoot?" "I can account for a few," replied Farquhar, in his usual modest and cautious manner. "Then you must come to Ticehurst Park in the autumn. I shall send you the invitation." "And your friends will be welcomed by Lord Saxham?" Lady Mary smiled quite a brilliant smile. "I may tell you in confidence that my dear old father is as wax in my hands. Are you satisfied with that?" Yes, Farquhar felt quite satisfied. But he thought of the grief-stricken girl keeping her lonely vigil in that quiet home, and his heart was very sore for her. Still the world went on, and here was a very charming woman, not perhaps quite so youthful as Isobel, who was showing very plainly that she had taken an interest in him. The world was a very pleasant place. CHAPTER ELEVEN. The Head of the Family arrived next day. He was a very stolid and bucolic-looking person, a breeder of prize oxen and fat sheep. He commiserated with poor Isobel in a heavy fashion. "Strange thing going off like that," he commented. "We are a very long-lived family. But your father was always a little bit different from the rest of us when he was a boy." Isobel said nothing in reply. She had seen several members of her father's family at rare intervals, and she had not been greatly impressed by them. The only one she had really liked was Mrs Farquhar, the mother of her Cousin Maurice. She was a sweet, charming woman, the favourite sister of her dead father. Mr Clandon fingered his moustache a little nervously. "I suppose you know all about his affairs, my dear? He has left you comfortably off, eh? He came into quite a tidy little bit when my father died."