Lady Margot shrugged her shoulders.
“I must give up golf,” she said tartly. “It exasperates me.”
The Squire laughed at her, as he handed his son half a sovereign.
“We can’t always win, my dear.”
CHAPTER X
Margot recovered her temper and spirits as the motor sped homeward. The benedictions of the countryside fell like dew upon her, the soft air, the fragrance of pines, the leafy glades where the deer wandered, the great open spaces of moorland. Swift motion exhilarated her. She had paid many fines for exceeding the speed limit. She decided that she could think better in the country, and her thoughts, like bees amongst lime blossom, buzzed busily. Joyce had asked to be dropped at the Vicarage. The Squire hospitably entreated her to lunch at the Hall; Lionel insisted upon it; but Joyce told them that her father was alone. That settled the matter. Margot feigned a civil disappointment. At heart she was glad. The morning, after all, had not been wasted. The information she sought was hers.
The Parson came out to meet his daughter, and stood talking to the Squire—a tall, grim, gaunt figure. The deep tones of his voice impressed Margot. As they glided on again, she said to the Squire:
“Mr. Hamlin is a remarkable personality.”
“Man of too many angles,” growled Sir Geoffrey. “I bark my shins against ’em.”