She was writing leisurely, when a noise outside distracted her attention. Noise, honest mirth, was to be expected upon such an occasion. But common decency imposed limits upon that. Above the noise, accentuating it, rose bucolic laughter, the laughter of the ale-house. Lady Selina walked to the window, frowning. As she walked a sentence rang out:

“Biff ’un again, Johnny, biff ’un again!”

Then she heard her son’s voice raised commandingly, the voice of an officer on the parade ground.

“Shut up, you fellows, at once.”

The noise died down; giggles succeeded.

Lady Selina stood still, listening. She could trust her son to deal drastically with anything approximating to a disturbance in her garden. That such a disturbance should take place amongst her guests filled her with dismay and astonishment.

She was enlightened forthwith by Brian, who entered hurriedly, rather flushed in the face.

“What has happened, Brian?”

“A little scrap, Mums.”

“A little—scrap.” She repeated the words incredulously.

“Yes; Johnny Exton and Gridley.”

“You tell me that John Exton and Gridley have been fighting on my lawn. Send them to me immediately. What an outrage!”

Brian withheld comment. Within a minute the offenders appeared looking uncommonly sheepish. Brian ushered them into the presence, and closed the French windows against a grinning and inquisitive crowd. Lady Selina stared coldly at her bailiff. He presented a not too prepossessing appearance, being hatless and breathless, with his tie undone, his hair in disorder and a dash of blood upon his cheek. Hard eyes glared out of a weather-beaten face. Lady Selina hardly recognised her smug, obsequious Grand Vizier. She glanced swiftly at John Exton, the son of Ephraim. The young man bore no marks of the encounter, but he appeared to be still simmering with rage. Gridley was thick-set and slightly corpulent; John Exton was tall and slim. Lady Selina turned to her bailiff.

“What have you to say, Gridley?”

“He struck me first, my lady.”

She addressed the young man, coldly.

“You struck my bailiff on my lawn?”

“On my cheek, my lady.”

Gridley put his hand to his cheek, and discovering blood began to wipe it off with a bandana. John looked at the knuckles of his right hand, grinned, and hid his hand in his pocket. Lady Selina, judicially calm outwardly, continued:

“Kindly tell me, John Exton, why you, my guest this afternoon, struck another guest of mine?”

John fidgeted, blurting out the words:

“I’m not your guest, my lady.”

“What do you mean?”

The young man replied sullenly:

“With things as they are at our farm, I haven’t time, my lady, to be anybody’s guest. Father put his money into valuable stock, and some of ’em are dying. We’re pretty nigh desperate. Father told me to find Mr. Gridley this afternoon, and to ask for a little help. I went to his house. They told me he was here——”

“Yes, yes; but why did you strike him?”

Excitedly, he didn’t pause to pick his words.

“Because, my lady, he’s a bully and a brute.”

Lady Selina made no attempt to hide her amazement. The young man spoke with such passion that he became impressive.

“Bless my soul! What do you answer to that, Gridley?”

Gridley answered fiercely:

“He’s a liar.”

Immediately Lady Selina’s handsome face stiffened into impassivity.

“You forget yourself, my good man.”

“Infernal cheek,” muttered Brian.

Gridley cringed.

“I beg pardon, my lady. I’m your ladyship’s servant. Young Exton said narsty things about you, my lady. Said you was responsible for the rotten conditions at his father’s farm. That maddened me, my lady.”

She turned once more to John Exton. He confronted her boldly but not brazenly, although it is likely that such a woman at such a time might mistake courage for defiance.

“Did you say that?”

“Something of the sort, my lady.”

“And then——?”

Gridley answered eagerly:

“I spoke up for you, my lady. I told him that when you lowered his father’s rent three years ago it was understood that you were not responsible for the outside repairs.”

“Which is perfectly true.”

Gridley continued with less restraint, perceiving, possibly, that a little warmth of speech might be deemed pardonable:

“With that he flies out at me, my lady. I’d be ashamed to repeat his language to your ladyship. I aim to keep a clean tongue in my head, I do.”

John interpolated quickly:

“Only when talking to her ladyship.”

“Silence, please.” She shot a disdainful glance at John and turned once more to her bailiff. Her voice became velvety.

“Tell me what John Exton said with—a—decent reservations.”

Gridley began to inflate, striking an attitude and speaking in a loud, derisive tone:

“I’m a humbug and a hypocrite, my lady. I’m grinding Gridley, I am. I grind the face o’ the pore and my own axe at the same time.”

Lady Selina was able to fill in the lacunÆ in this text. She looked very coldly at the young man.

“You dared to say that to my bailiff?”

“It’s true, my lady; every word of it.”

“Stuff and nonsense! And how dare you hold me responsible for the disease at your neglected farm?”

John spoke deprecatingly.

“Our buildings ought to be destroyed.”

Gridley nodded.

“What I’ve said many a time.”

Lady Selina nodded also.

“I’m inclined to agree with that. The buildings were never taken care of.”

John exploded.

“They were taken too much care of.”

Gridley pursued his advantage, saying slyly:

“He thinks, my lady, that he and his father own your property.”

“No, I don’t,” John replied hotly. “All the same——” He broke off abruptly.

“Pray, finish your sentence.”

The young man pulled himself together. Voice and hands trembled slightly as he said more quietly:

“Property, my lady, is a trust, a sacred trust, or—or it ought to be.”

Lady Selina paused before she answered him, a pause characteristic of her. She boasted, not without reason, that she was approachable, that she listened patiently to what her people might wish to say to her. And rarely indeed did she lose her temper with servants or those whom she held beneath her in station. A faint smile flickered about her lips as she asked quietly:

“Do you seriously accuse me of abusing a sacred trust?”

Gridley broke another silence.

“He says the land belongs to all of us.”

“Do you?”

Poor John became desperate, the champion of a lost cause, with his back to the wall, sensible that further speech was futile, quite unable to hold his tongue when challenged.

“I think the land belongs to England, my lady, although a few have been allowed to do what they like with it.”

“Allowed?”

“Yes, your ladyship, allowed.”

“You can go.”

John stared at her and went out. Brian opened the door for him and then closed it. Lady Selina spoke to Gridley:

“You will receive a letter from me tomorrow morning. Act upon it promptly.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Mother and son were left alone.

Brian went up to Lady Selina and kissed her, murmuring:

“This has been beastly for you, Mums. I’m most awfully sorry.”

“Yes, yes; but what do you think of it?”

“As to that, I think, of course, what you think.”

“I call John Exton an anarchist.”

“So do I.”

“And I won’t have anarchists in Upworthy. Send Agatha Farleigh to me.”

“Right-o!”

He hurried away, with an air of relief. Lady Selina glanced at her late husband’s portrait, frowning, and biting her lips. Then she went back to her desk, reopening the Estate ledger and eyeing it grimly. Before Agatha came in, she took up a cut-glass bottle holding crystals of ammonia in eau de Cologne, and inhaled the pungent fumes. She had not admitted to her son that she was stupefied with astonishment.

Agatha Farleigh, however, found her mistress calm as usual.

The girl approached the desk and stood respectfully at attention.