“I think not.”
Lionel, with a Sunday luncheon slightly oppressing him, went for a long tramp by himself, seeking the high moorland, where he hoped that an ampler æther would clear his befogged wits. He was uncomfortably sensible of his limitations, as thinker and speaker, when he talked with Margot. She had characterised him as “absorbent.” He “took in” her talk, but found it indigestible and clogging. Her experience, so variegated, produced a kaleidoscopic effect upon his mental vision, dazzling judgment. He was quick enough to grasp the elemental fact that she belonged to the “loaves and fishes” school. She had fighting instincts. She could and would fight in defence of property, and all it included. And she would use, ruthlessly, her own weapons—the rapier of her wit, the heavy sceptre of sovereignty.
After luncheon, while he was smoking a cigar with his father, Sir Geoffrey had spoken a seasonable word.
“My boy,” he said, “the little lady likes you. Now—go for her! Go for her!”
“You have had her in your eye all along, father?”
The Squire winked, laughing jovially.
“Spotted her at once. A dasher.”
“I know. But why should she dash at me?”
“Tchah! If you come to that, why did your dear mother cotton to me? B’ Jove! that bowled me over, I can tell you. She was a dasher, too. Sharp as a needle in those ancient days.”