ive cottages constitute the village of Lashmar;
at the other lies Lashmar Mill-House, slumbering half-hidden by beech
trees to the unchanging murmur of the Bort. The relevant deeds and
charters prove beyond a doubt that the lord of Lashmar Mill-House has
the right to make Lashmar village grind its corn in his mill, paying
him in kind and yielding three days' labour a year to grind his. The
ambitions of Sir Francis Lane and of his eldest son, however, were not
feudal.

The autumn floods were lapping the road-side as Eric and his sister left
the twinkling lights behind and turned, after a crackling six miles of
metalled high-way, on to the primaeval ride that bored faint-heartedly
through the forest. He was tired and uncommunicative, though his journey
from Waterloo had been uneventful; once inside the carriage and tucked
warmly into a corner, Barbara had closed her eyes, sighed and dropped
asleep. Not until he stirred himself to collect his hat and coat did she
open her eyes and look round with a tired smile; as the train steamed
out of Winchester, an ungloved hand fluttered into sight for a moment.

It was Eric's first visit to Lashmar since the production of the
"Divorce" had made his name known throughout England; and he could not
conceal from himself that he was trying to render his return agreeably
dramatic. Lady Lane assisted the conspiracy by inviting their few
neighbours to meet him; Sybil was awaiting him on the platform with
ill-suppressed excitement; and it was entirely appropriate that Agnes
Waring should dine at the Mill-House on his first night at home.

"Geoff came home on leave yesterday," said Sybil.

"From Scapa? Oh, good! I haven't seen him for a long time," said Eric.

But for Basil, who was in Salonica, the party would be complete; and
Eric felt a moment's compunction at having allowed himself to be so much
caught up by the work and distractions of London. When the car stopped
at the door of the Mill-House, he looked with affection at its squat,
sleepy extent, punctuated with lifeless, dark windows and wrapped in
age-long slumber; as the door opened, he saw his mother silhouetted
against the golden light of the hall.

"At last, Eric!" she cried.

"It's good to be home again, mother," he answered, jumping out of the
car and embracing her.

While his sister drove round to the stables, Eric walked arm-in-arm with
his mother into the low, warm hall. For more than thirty years Lady Lane
had guard