e matter; equally evidently it was nothing to
do with him. . . .

"I hope there's no chance of such a tragedy as that," he said gravely.

She turned and faced him. "There's every chance," she cried fiercely.
"Dad is up against it--I know he is, though he doesn't say much. And
this morning . . ." She bit her lip, and once more her eyes rested on
the old house. "Oh! what's the good of talking?" she went on after a
moment. "What has to be--has to be; but, oh! it makes me mad to think
of it. What good does it do, what purpose in the scheme of things you
may talk about, does it serve to turn out a man, who is beloved for
miles around, and put in his place some wretched pork butcher who has
made millions selling cat's meat as sausages?"

She faced Vane defiantly, and he wisely remained silent.

"You may call it what you like," she stormed; "but it's practically
turning him out. Is it a crime to own land, and a virtue to make a
fortune out of your neighbours in trade? Dad has never swindled a
soul. He's let his tenants down easy all through the war when they've
had difficulties over their rent; he's just idolised by them all. And
now he's got to go--unless. . . ." She paused and her two hands
clenched suddenly. Then she continued, and her voice was quite calm.
"I know I'm talking rot--so you needn't pay any attention. The great
thinkers are all agreed--aren't they?--that the present land system is
wrong--and they must know, of course. But I'm not a great thinker, and
I can't get beyond the fact that it's not going to increase anybody's
happiness--and there are a good many to be considered--if Dad goes, and
a pork butcher comes in. . . . And that's that. . . ."

"Supposing," said Vane curiously, "it wasn't a pork butcher? Suppose
it was someone who--well, let's say whom you wouldn't mind going in to
dinner with."

"It would be just the same," she answered after a moment. "Just the
same. It's ours, don't you see?--it's _ours_. It's always been ours."
And the brooding, animal look had come back into her eyes. . . .

Then with a laugh she turned to him. "Come on; you've got to make a
bow to Aunt Jane. Mind you tell her you've killed a lot of Germans.
She'll adore you for ever. . . ."

She threw off her fit of depression and chatted gaily all the way up to
the house.

"I've told Dad you're a very serious young man," she remarked, as they
reached the drive; "so you'd better live up to your reputation."