Margot nodded, too discreet to press an interesting subject further. Lionel had hinted that relations were strained between two autocrats, each intent upon having his way in the same parish. She wondered if Joyce inherited her sire’s personality. Men obtruded that priceless possession; wise women hid it. Joyce might be wiser than she seemed, more determined, more resouceful. If she, too, wanted Lionel, would she fight for him as steadily and strenuously as she had played golf that morning? Another question for Time to answer.
At luncheon, telling Lady Pomfret a vivacious story of the defeat at golf, she obliterated the memory of her loss of temper by owning up to it.
“I made an idiot of myself,” she confessed. “I lost the match, and eight fat half-crowns—and my temper. Sir Geoffrey was adorable. I saw that Lionel hated me, but not so furiously as I hated myself.”
“I thought you took it jolly well,” affirmed the young man.
“No complaints, my dear, no complaints. We’ll take ’em on again any day.” Thus the Squire.
Lionel beamed. She knew that he was thinking: “Margot is the right sort. She was tried rather high this morning.” He said ingenuously:
“I lost my temper, mother. Joyce played like a book.”
Margot added demurely:
“In very pretty binding.”
If she expected a compliment from the young man, she was disappointed. He merely nodded, adding after a pause: