“And my father preserved strictly,” he went on.  “It is quite a simple story.  When I inherited, three years ago, I thought the whole thing detestable, and determined I wouldn’t be responsible for keeping it up.  So I called the estate together—­farmers and labourers—­and we worked out a plan.  There are keepers, but they are the estate servants, not mine.  Everybody has his turn according to the rules—­I and my friends along with the rest.  Not everybody can shoot every year, but everybody gets his chance, and, moreover, a certain percentage of all the game killed is public property, and is distributed every year according to a regular order.”

“Who pays the keepers?” interrupted Leven.

“I do,” said Wharton, smiling again.  “Mayn’t I—­for the present—­do what I will with mine own?  I return in their wages some of my ill-gotten gains as a landowner.  It is all makeshift, of course.”

“I understand!” exclaimed Marcella, nodding to him—­“you could not be a Venturist and keep up game-preserving?”

Wharton met her bright eye with a half deprecating, reserved air.

“You are right, of course,” he said drily.  “For a Socialist to be letting his keepers run in a man earning twelve shillings a week for knocking over a rabbit would have been a little strong.  No one can be consistent in my position—­in any landowner’s position—­it is impossible; still, thank Heaven, one can deal with the most glaring matters.  As Mr. Raeburn said, however, all this game business is, of course, a mere incident of the general land and property system, as you will hear me expound when you come to that meeting you promised me to honour.”

He stooped forward, scanning her with smiling deference.  Marcella felt the man’s hand that held her own suddenly tighten an instant.  Then Aldous released her, and rising walked towards the fire.

“You’re not going to one of his meetings, Miss Boyce!” cried Frank, in angry incredulity.

Marcella hesitated an instant, half angry with Wharton.  Then she reddened and threw back her dark head with the passionate gesture Hallin had already noticed as characteristic.

“Mayn’t I go where I belong?” she said—­“where my convictions lead me?”

There was a moment’s awkward silence.  Then Hallin got up.

“Miss Boyce, may we see the house?  Aldous has told me much of it.”

* * * * *

Presently, in the midst of their straggling progress through the half-furnished rooms of the garden front, preceded by the shy footman carrying a lamp, which served for little more than to make darkness visible, Marcella found herself left behind with Aldous.  As soon as she felt that they were alone, she realised a jar between herself and him.  His manner was much as usual, but there was an underlying effort and difficulty which her sensitiveness caught at once.  A sudden wave of girlish trouble—­remorse—­swept over her.  In her impulsiveness she moved close to him as they were passing through her mother’s little sitting-room, and put her hand on his arm.