is, Simpson?"

The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment,
probably a swollen lip.

"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to
the back door where he belongs."

"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton,
what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse
my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this
afternoon."

George grinned.

"Must be some horse."

None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy
Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive
hall.

"Your father sent for me."

"Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered.

Lambert burst into a laugh.

"I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Go
away, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be as
clever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr.
Morton."

Simpson was bewildered.

"Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished.

"My father," Lambert said, "is in the library--that first door. Wait.
I'll see if he's alone."

Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited,
endeavouring not to pull at his cap.

"Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling."

A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall.

"What are you talking about?"

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."