Lambert bowed profoundly.
"Mr. Morton from the lodge."
George stepped close to him.
"Want me to thrash you again?"
Lambert faced him without panic.
"I don't admit that you could, but, my dear—George, I'm too fatigued to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I may. I do sincerely."
He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, cultured and unaffected.
"Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you."
She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath.
"On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same way, though I've never deserved it as you do."