While these moves and counter-moves were proceeding, the conversation was general.  The vicar was for the hundredth time admiring the Andrea del Sarto over the chimney-piece and his wife was explaining her general objections to the representation of sacred subjects upon canvas, while Mrs. Goddard answered each in turn and endeavoured to disagree with neither.  What the squire had foreseen when he made his last move, however, actually took place at last.  Mrs. Goddard established herself upon the side opposite the two men.  Mr. Juxon crossed rapidly to where she was seated, and Mrs. Ambrose, who had turned with the intention of speaking to the squire, found herself confronted by John.  He saw that he had been worsted by his foe and immediately lost his temper; but being brought face to face with Mrs. Ambrose was obliged to control it as he might.  That excellent lady beamed upon him with a maternal smile of the kind which is peculiarly irritating to young men.  He struggled to get away however, glancing over Mrs. Ambrose’s shoulder at the squire and longing to be “at him” as he would have expressed it.  But the squire was not to be got at so easily, for the vicar’s wife was of a fine presence and covered much ground.  John involuntarily thought of the dyke before Troy, of Hector and his heroes attempting to storm it and of the Ajaces and Sarpedon defending it and glaring down from above.  He could appreciate Hector’s feelings—­Mrs. Ambrose was very like the dyke.

The squire smiled serenely and smoothed his hair as he talked to Mrs. Goddard and she herself looked by no means discontented, thereby adding, as it were, an insult to the injury done to John.

“I shall always envy you the cottage,” the squire was saying.  “I have not a single room in the Hall that is half so cheery in the evening.”

“I shall never forget my terror when we first met,” answered Mrs. Goddard, “do you remember?  You frightened me by saying you would like to live here.  I thought you meant it.”

“You must have thought I was the most unmannerly of barbarians.”

“Instead of being the best of landlords,” added Mrs. Goddard with a grateful smile.

“I hardly know whether I am that,” said Mr. Juxon, settling himself in his chair.  “But I believe I am by nature an exceedingly comfortable man, and I never fail to consult the interests of my comfort.”

“And of mine.  Think of all you have done to improve this place.  I can never thank you enough.  I suppose one always feels particularly grateful at Christmas time—­does not one?”

“One has more to be grateful for, it seems to me—­in our climate, too.  People in southern countries never really know what comfort means, because nature never makes them thoroughly uncomfortable.  Only a man who is freezing can appreciate a good fire.”

“I suppose you have been a good deal in such places,” suggested Mrs. Goddard, vaguely.

“Oh yes—­everywhere,” answered the squire with equal indefiniteness.  “By the bye, talking of travelling, when is our young friend going away?” There was not a shade of ill-humour in the question.