The dinner was pleasant enough. Squire and Parson tacitly avoided subjects upon which they might differ. Joyce looked charming in the simple frock of her own making. Some tennis was arranged. Hamlin mentioned that his eldest son was coming home and bringing with him a friend. Of this friend, Joyce, somewhat to Lionel’s chagrin, spoke with enthusiasm. He had distinguished himself at Cambridge, was now a Fellow of his college, and regarded as a rising chemist.
“A chemist?” exclaimed Lionel.
“Not a druggist. His line is coal-tar products. He says the Germans have that field almost to themselves, but he is digging deep into it. Mr. Moxon has imagination. That is what is wanted in an inventor.”
“Moxon?” said the Squire. “Let me see. One of the Moxons of Wooton?”
Hamlin answered drily:
“I don’t think so. Moxon’s father, I believe, made a fortune in jute.”
“What is jute?” asked Lady Pomfret.
Hamlin explained. Moxon père had begun life sweeping out an office in Dundee. Moxon fils might end—anywhere. Already he was quite independent of a rich father.
“Very creditable,” said the Squire majestically. Everybody present knew that Sir Geoffrey would have shown much greater interest in a Moxon and Wooton. Nevertheless, he continued in the same tone, with a sweeping gesture: