“And Mariana?” Provost inquired.

“Came out day before yesterday, late; leaving this morning.”

Howat Penny was conscious of a growing anger.  There was no reason for his submitting to an interrogation by Peter Provost; he didn’t have to justify his actions, the selection of his guests; and he had no intention of explaining his attitude toward Mariana.  But Provost, it became evident, had no inclination to be intrusive.  It was, he made that clear, wholly Charlotte.  But Kingsfrere Jannan was increasingly impatient.  “Where is Polder?” he demanded.  Howat surveyed him with neither favour nor reply.  Suddenly he understood the feeling of both men—­they considered that he was too old to have any grip or comprehension of life.  They were quietly but obviously relegating him to the back of the scene.  His anger mounted; he was about to make a sharp reply, when he paused.  There was a possibility that they were right; he was, undoubtedly, old; and he had been unable to influence, turn, Mariana, in the slightest degree.  He didn’t approve of her present, head-strong course ... only a few hours ago he had voluntarily, gladly, relinquished all effort to comprehend it.

“Perhaps,” Provost suggested, “since we are here we’d better talk to him.  I suppose they’re out about the place.  You could send Rudolph.”  Howat replied that he would find them himself.  He wanted, now, to prepare James Polder for any incidental unpleasantness.  The latter, he knew, had a hasty temper, a short store of patience.  After all, he had acted very well in a difficult situation.  It had been Mariana.  Howat Penny was aware of a growing sympathy for young Polder.  His was a more engaging person than Kingsfrere’s pasty presence and sharp reputation at cards.  He got his hat, and went out over the thick, smooth sod, into the slumberous, blue radiance of the early summer noon.

He found Mariana and James Polder sitting on a bank by the Furnace.  “Peter Provost’s here with Kingsfrere,” he told them quietly.  “They want to see....  James, about some nonsense bantered around town.”  Polder rose quickly, instantly antagonistic.  “At the house?” he demanded, already moving away.  Mariana stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t pay any attention to what they may say, Jimmy,” she commanded.  “It isn’t Peter Provost’s affair, and Kingsfrere in a fatherly pose is a scream.”  They moved forward together.  “I’ll see them,” she added cuttingly.

“I will attend to this,” James Polder told her.  “I don’t want any woman explaining my actions.  They haven’t a whisper on me.  I’m glad enough of an opportunity to talk to a man.”

“If you lose your temper—­” Howat commenced, but Mariana impatiently interrupted him.  “Why shouldn’t Jim lose his temper?” she demanded.  “I would.  Personally, I’d be glad if he did, although it mightn’t be fortunate for Kingsfrere.  He’s a good deal of a dumpling.  But I will be furious if you look guilty.  Tell them we’re mad about each other and that I am waiting for the smallest encouragement to go with you.”