Almost in silence they passed up through the dripping garden to the house side by side, Columbus trotting demurely behind. Juliet was still limping, but she would not accept support.

"I suppose you are going to beard the lion in his den," she said as they drew near.

"I suppose I am," said Green. "If you hear sounds of a serious fracas, perhaps you will come to the rescue."

"Not to yours," she said lightly. "You are more than capable of holding your own—anywhere."

He flashed her his sudden look. "Do you really think so? I assure you I am considered very small fry, indeed, in this household."

"That's very good for you," said Juliet.

They mounted to the terrace that bounded the south front of the house, and entered by a glass door that led into a conservatory. Here for a moment Juliet paused. Her grey eyes under their level brows met his with a friendly smile.

"I think I must leave you now, Mr. Green," she said, "and go and find
Mrs. Fielding. I expect the squire is in his study."

His answering smile was as ready as her own, but there was a secret triumph about it that hers lacked. "Pray don't trouble any further on my account!" he said courteously. "I can find my own way."

She threw him a nod, cool and kindly, over her shoulder, and took him at his word. He watched her disappear into the room beyond, Columbus in close attendance; then for a few seconds his hands went up to his face, and he stood motionless, pressing his temples hard, feeling the blood surging at fever heat through his veins. How marvellous she was—and withal how gracious! How had he dared? Midsummer madness indeed! And yet she had suffered him—had even stooped to plead with him!

A great shaft of red sunlight burst suddenly through the heaped storm-clouds in the west. He turned and faced it, dazzled but strangely exultant. He felt as if his whole being had been plunged into the glowing flame. The wonder of it pulsed through and through him. As it were involuntarily, a prayer sprang to his lips.

"O God," he said, "make me worthy!"

Then he turned, as if the glory had become too much for him, and went into the house.

He had been well acquainted with the place from boyhood though since the squire's marriage he had ceased to enter it unannounced. Before his appointment to the village school, he had acted for a time as the squire's secretary; but it had never been more than a temporary arrangement and it had come to a speedy end when Mrs. Fielding became mistress of the Court. Between her and her husband's protege, as she scornfully called him, there had always existed a very decided antipathy. She resented his presence in the house at any time, and though the squire made it abundantly clear that he would permit no open insolence on her part, she did not find it difficult to convey her feelings on the subject to the man himself. He accepted the situation with a shrug and a smile, and though he did not discontinue his visits on her account, they became less frequent than formerly; and now generally he came and went again without seeing her.

The room he entered was empty. He passed through it without a pause and found himself in the great entrance hall. He crossed this to a door on the other side and, knocking briefly, opened it without waiting for a reply.

"Hullo!" said the squire's voice. "You, is it? How did you get here? Were you caught in the storm?"

"No, sir, I took shelter." Green shut the door, and came forward.

Mr. Fielding was seated in a leather arm-chair with a newspaper. He looked at his visitor over it with anything but a favourable eye.

"What have you come for?" he said.

Green halted in front of him. "I've come to make a very humble apology," he said, "for my boy Robin's misdemeanour."

"Have you?" growled Fielding. He sat motionless, still looking up at Green from under heavily scowling brows. "Do you think I'm going to be satisfied with just an apology?"

"May I sit down, please?" said Green, pulling forward a chair.

"Oh yes, sit down! Sit down and argue!" said the squire irritably. "You're always ready with some plausible excuse for that half-witted young scoundrel. I'll tell you what it is, Dick. If you don't get rid of him after this, there'll be a split between us. I'm not going to countenance your infernal obstinacy any longer. The boy is unsafe and he must go."

Green sat, leaning forward, courteously attentive, his eyes unwavering fixed upon his patron's irate countenance.

He did not immediately reply to the mandate, and the squire's frown deepened. "You hear me, Dick?" he said.

Green nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Well?" Fielding's hand clenched upon the paper in exasperation.

Dick's eyes very bright, wholly undismayed, continued to meet his with unvarying steadiness. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said. "The answer is the same as usual. I can't."

"Won't—you mean!" There was a sound in the squire's voice like the muffled roar of an angry animal.

Dick's black brows travelled swiftly upward and came down again. "He's my boy, sir," he said. "I'll be responsible for all he does."

"But—damn it!" ejaculated the squire. "Making yourself responsible for a mad dog doesn't prevent his biting people, does it? He's become a public danger, I tell you. You've no right to let him loose on the neighbourhood."

"No, no, sir!" Dick broke in quickly. "That's not a fair thing to say. The boy is as harmless as any of us if he isn't baited. I knew—I knew perfectly well—that there was a reason for what he did to-day. So there was. I'm not going into details. Besides, he was clearly in the wrong. But you may take it from me—he was provoked."

"Oh! Was he?" said the squire. "And who provoked him? Jack?"

Dick hesitated momentarily, then: "Yes, Jack," he said briefly. "He had some reason, but he's such a tactless ass. He blames Robin of course. Everyone always does."

"Except you," said the squire drily. "Oh, and Miss Moore! She makes excuses for him at every turn."

"She would," said Dick simply.

"I don't know why," snapped Fielding. He suddenly laid a hand on the younger man's arm, gripping it mercilessly. "Look here, Richard! Do you want me to break you? Because that's what it's coming to. Do you hear? That's what it's coming to. You're getting near the end of your tether."

Dick's eyes flashed with swift comprehension over the angry face before him, and an answering flicker of anger sprang up in them for an instant; but he kept himself in hand.

"Get me kicked out, you mean?" he said coolly. "Yes, sir, no doubt you could if you tried hard enough. You're all powerful here, aren't you? What you say, goes."

"It does," said Fielding grimly. "And I don't care a damn what I do when my monkey's up. You know that, don't you?"

"Rather!" said Dick. And suddenly the resentment died out of his face, and he began to laugh. "All right, sir! Break me if you like! I'll come out on top somehow."

"Confound you! Do you think you can defy me?" fumed Fielding.

"I'm sure of it," said Dick. "I can defy the whole world if I choose. There is a certain portion of a man, you know, that can't be beat if he plays fair, however hard he's hammered. It's the rule of the game."

"Confound you!" the squire said again, and sprang fiercely to his feet. "Don't talk to me! You go too far. You always have. You behave as if—as if—"

"As if I were my own master," said Dick quietly. "Well, I am that, sir.
It's the one thing in life I can lay claim to."

"And a lord of creation into the bargain, eh?" the squire flung at him, as he tramped to the end of the room.

Dick rose punctiliously and stood waiting, a man unimposing of height and build yet possessing that innate dignity which no adversity can impair. He said nothing, merely stood and watched the squire with half-comic resignation till he came tramping back.

Fielding's face as he turned was heavy with displeasure, but as his look fell upon the offender a sudden softening began to struggle with the deep lines about his mouth. It was like a gleam of sunshine on a dark day.

He went to Dick, and took him by the shoulder. "Confound you!" he said for the third time. "You're just like your mother. Pig-headed as a mule, but—"

"Are mules pig-headed?" said Dick flippantly.

The squire shook him. "Be quiet, you prig! I won't be dictated to by you. Look here, Dick!" His voice changed abruptly. "I'm not ordering. I'm asking. That boy is a mill-stone round your neck. Let him go! He'll be happy enough. I'll see to that. Give him up like a dear chap! Then you'll be free—free to chuck this absurd, farcical existence you're leading now—free to make your own way in the world—free to marry and be happy." Dick made a slight movement under the hand that held him, but he did not attempt to speak. The squire went on. "You can't hope for any of those things under existing conditions. It wouldn't be fair to ask any woman to share your present life. It would be almost an insult with this infernal incubus hanging on you. Can't you see my point? Can't you sacrifice your damned obstinacy? You'd never regret it. You're ruining yourself, Dick. Chance after chance has gone by, and you've let 'em go. But you can't afford to go on. You're in your prime now, but let me tell you a man's prime doesn't last. A time will come when you'll realize it's too late to make a start, and you'll look back and curse the folly that induced you to saddle yourself with a burden too heavy for you to bear."

He paused. Dick was looking straight before him with a set, grim face that gave no indication of what was passing in his mind.

Again, more gently, the squire shook the shoulder under his hand. "I'm out to make you happy, Dick. Can't you see it? For your mother's sake—as well as your own. And there's a chance coming your way now—or I'm much mistaken—which it would be madness to miss. This Miss Moore—she's dropped from the skies, but she's charming, she's a lady, she's just the woman for you. What, Dick? Think so yourself, do you? No, it's all right, I'm not prying. But this is a chance you'll never get again. And you can't ask her, you can't have the face to ask her, as long as you keep that half-witted creature dangling after you. It wouldn't be right, man, even if she'd have you. Look the thing in the face, and you'll be the first to say so! It would be a hopeless handicap to any marriage—an insurmountable obstacle to happiness, hers as well as yours. Don't tell me you can't see it! You know it. You know you've no right to ask any woman to share a burden of that kind with you. It would be manifestly unfair—iniquitous. There! I've done. I've never spoken my mind to this extent before. I've hoped—I've always hoped—the wretched boy would die. But he hasn't. That sort never does. He'll live for ever. And it's a damned shame that you should sacrifice yourself to him any longer. For heaven's sake let him go!"

He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence so tense, so electric, that it seemed as if it must mask something terrible. Dick's face was still immovable, but he had the look of a man who endures unutterable things. He had flinched once—and only once—during the squire's speech, and that was at the first mention of Juliet. But for the rest he had stood quite rigid, as he stood now, his lips tightly compressed, his eyes looking straight before him.

He came out of his silence at last with a movement so sudden that it was as if he flung aside some weight that threatened to overwhelm him. The arrested vitality flashed back into his face. He threw back his head with a smile, and looked the squire in the face.

"You haven't left me a leg to stand on, sir," he said. "But all the same—I stand. There's nothing more to be said except—may I pay for the window?"

Fielding's hand dropped from his shoulder. He flung round fiercely and tramped to the window, swearing inarticulately.

Dick's black brows went up again to a humorous angle. He pursed his lips, but he did not whistle.

"Do you realize that my wife might have been killed?" Fielding growled at last.

"Oh, quite," said Dick. "I'm glad she wasn't. Ought I to congratulate her?"

"Oh, don't be so damn funny!" Fielding jingled the money in his pocket irritably. "You won't laugh when I turn you out."

"I wonder," said Dick.

Fielding turned sharply round upon him. "You behave as if you don't care what I do," he said, an ugly scowl on his face. "Or perhaps you think I won't or can't—do it."

"No, sir," Dick spoke deliberately, and though he still smiled his eyes held the squire's with unmistakable determination. "I'm sure you can do it. I'm equally sure you won't. And I'm surest of all that I shouldn't care a damn if you did."

"You wouldn't care!" The squire looked furious for a moment, then he sneered. "Oh, wouldn't you, my friend? We shall see. You'd better go now—before I have you kicked out."

Dick's shoulders jerked with a swift tightening of the muscles. His eyes gleamed with a fierce light though his smile remained. "I'll lay you even odds," he said, "that if you want that done, you'll have to do it yourself."

"I'm equal to it!" flashed the squire. "You'd better not try me too far!"

"I won't try you at all, sir," Dick suddenly relaxed again. He went to him with a pacific hand held out. "Good-bye! I'm going—now."

Fielding looked at him, looked at the extended hand, paused for a long moment, finally took it.

"Don't want to quarrel with me, eh?" he said.

"Not without cause," said Dick.

Fielding gripped the firm, lithe hand, looking at him hard and straight. "You're very cussed," he said slowly. "I wish I'd had the upbringing of you."

Dick laughed. "Well, you've meddled in my affairs as long as I can remember, sir. I don't know anyone who has had as much to do with me as you have."

"And precious little satisfaction I've got out of it," grumbled the squire. "You've always been a kicker." He broke off as a knock came at the door, and turned away with an impatient fling. "Who is it? Come in!"

The door opened. Juliet stood on the threshold. The evening light fell full upon her. She was dressed in cloudy grey that fell about her in soft folds. Her face was flushed, but quite serene.

"Mrs. Fielding wants to know if you have forgotten dinner," she said.

The squire's face changed magically. He smiled upon Juliet. "Come in,
Miss Moore! You've met this pestilent pedagogue before, I think."

"Just once or twice," said Juliet, coming forward.

"How is the ankle?" said Green.

She smiled at him without embarrassment. "Oh, better, thank you. It was only a wrench."

"Hurt yourself?" questioned Fielding.

"No, no. It's really nothing. I slipped in the park and nearly sprained my ankle—just not quite," said Juliet. "And Mr. Green very kindly helped me into shelter before the storm broke."

"Did he?" said the squire and looked at Green searchingly. "Well, Mr.
Green, you'd better stay and dine as you are here."

"You're very kind," Dick said. "I don't know whether I ought. I'm not dressed."

"Of course you ought!" said Fielding testily. "Come on and wash! Your clothes won't matter—we're alone. That is, if Miss Moore doesn't object to sitting down with blue serge."

"I have no objection whatever," said Juliet. She was looking from one to the other with a slightly puzzled expression.

"What is it?" said Fielding, pausing.

His look was kindly. Juliet laughed. "I don't know. I feel as I felt that day you caught me trespassing. Am I trespassing, I wonder?"

"No!" said Fielding and Green in one breath.

She swept them a deep Court courtesy.

"Thank you, gentlemen! With your leave I will now withdraw."

The squire was at the door. He bowed her out with ceremony, watched her cross the hall, then sharply turned his head. Green was watching her also, but, keen as the twist of a rapier in the hand of a practised fencer, his eyes flashed to meet the squire's.

Fielding smiled grimly. He motioned him forward, gripped him by the arm, and drew him out of the ream. They mounted the shallow oak stairs side by side.

At the top in a tense whisper Fielding spoke. "Don't you be a fool,
Richard! Don't you be a damn' fool!"

Dick's laugh had in it a note that was not of mirth. "All right, sir,
I'll do my best," he said.

It was a drawn battle, and they both knew it. By tacit consent neither referred to the matter again.