Lionel groaned. Lady Pomfret poured a little balm into his wounds.
“But I will say this. I rejoice, with all my heart, that it is Joyce, not Margot, whom you love. I feared that you might be tempted to take the easy way. You might have been allured by her wit and charm. I am confident that her money did not weigh with you.”
“Thank you, mother.”
“For the rest, we must be patient with your dear father. You tell me that Margot knows, that she was nice to you. Perhaps, for a few hours, you had better leave your father to me. You ought to see Joyce at once.”
“Yes, yes.”
“And tell her father frankly the exact position. He will have to fight his pride.”
They talked on till the stable-clock struck seven. A minute later the Squire’s heavy step was heard in the corridor. He entered the room. Probably he expected to find mother and son together. And it says much for his courtesy and breeding that at such a moment he remembered what was due to his wife. He said heavily:
“Well, Mary, I suppose that Lionel has told you his story?”
“Yes.”
“He gave me no time to answer him. But I have answered the man whom he asked to act as go-between. Ben pleaded his case, pleaded it better than Lionel could have done. Ben will deliver my answer before he goes.”