rious scrape that had begun in
bravado and ended by a public thrashing. He had poached a trout from the
waters of a neighbouring landowner, who had welcomed the opportunity to
make himself more than usually objectionable. And on the morning before
his thrashing, Jervaise had come into my study and confessed to me that he
was dreading the coming ordeal. He was not afraid of the physical pain, he
told me, but of the shame of the thing. We were near to becoming friends
that morning. He confessed to no one but me. But when the affair was
over--he bore himself very well--he resumed his usual airs of superiority,
and snubbed me when I attempted to sympathise with him.

And I saw, now, just the same boyish dread and perplexity that I had seen
when he made his confession to me at Oakstone. He looked to me, indeed,
absurdly unchanged by the sixteen years that had separated the two
experiences.

"You know, Melhuish," he said; "I'm not altogether blaming Brenda in one
way."

"Do you think she's really in love with Banks?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "How can any one know? But it has been going on a
long time--weeks, anyhow. They were all getting nervous about it at home.
The mater told me when I came down this afternoon. She wanted me to talk
to B. about it. I was going to. She doesn't take any notice of Olive.
Never has." He stopped and looked at me with an appeal in his face that
begged contradiction.

We were standing still in the moonlight at the edge of the wood and the
accident of our position made me wonder if Jervaise's soul also hesitated
between some gloomy prison of conventional success and the freedom of
beautiful desires. I could find no words, however, to press that
speculation and instead I attempted, rather nervously, to point the way
towards what I regarded as the natural solution of the immediate problem.
"Come," I said, "the idea of a marriage between Banks and your sister
doesn't appear so unreasonable. The Bankses are evidently good old yeoman
stock on the father's side. It is a mere accident of luck that you should
be the owners of the land and not they."

"Theoretically, yes!" he said with a hint of impatience. "But we've got to
consider the opinions--prejudices, if you like--of all my people--to say
nothing of the neighbours."

"Oh! put the neighbours first," I exclaimed. "It's what we think other
people will think that counts with most of us."

"It isn't," Jervaise returned gloomily. "You d