“Hallo!  Here’s the parson’s bantam!”

The room had four high, bare windows through which the afternoon sunshine streamed on the carpet.  The carpet had a pattern of pink peonies on a delicate buff ground, and was shamefully dirty.  And the vast apartment, with its white paint and gilding and Italian sketches in water-colour and statuettes under glass, might have been a lady’s drawing-room.  But paint and gilding were tarnished; the chintz chair-covers soiled and torn; the pictures hung askew; and a smell of dog filled the air.

Squire Moyle sat huddled in a deep chair beside the fire-place, facing the middle of the room, where a handsome, high-complexioned gentleman, somewhat past middle age, lounged on a settee and dangled a gold-mounted riding crop.  A handsome boy knelt at the back of the settee and leaned over the handsome gentleman’s shoulder.  On the floor, between the two men, lay a canvas bag; and something moved inside it.  At the end of the room, by the farthest window, Honoria knelt over a big portfolio.  She wore the grey frock and pink sash which Taffy had seen in church that morning, and she tossed her dark hair back from her eyes as she looked up.

The Squire crumpled up the letter in his hand.

“Put the bag away,” he said to the handsome gentleman. “’Tis Sunday, I tell ’ee, and Parson will be here in an hour.  This is young six-foot I was telling about.”  He turned to Taffy—­

“Boy, go and shake hands with Sir Harry Vyell.”

Taffy did as he was bidden.  “This is my son George,” said Sir Harry; and Taffy shook hands with him, too, and liked his face.

“Put the bag away, Harry,” said the Squire.

“Just to comfort ’ee, now!”

“I tell ’ee I won’t look at en.”

Sir Harry untied the neck of the bag, and drew out a smaller one; untied this, and out strutted a game-cock.

The old Squire eyed it.  “H’m, he don’t seem flourishing.”

“Don’t abuse a bird that’s come twelve miles in a bag on purpose to cheer you up.  He’s a match for anything you can bring.”

“Tuts, man, he’s dull—­no colour nor condition.  Get along with ’ee; I wouldn’ ask a bird of mine to break the Sabbath for a wastrel like that.”

Sir Harry drew out a shagreen-covered case and opened it.  Within, on a lining of pale blue velvet, lay two small sharp instruments of steel, very highly polished.  He lifted one, felt its point, replaced it, set down the case on the carpet, and fell to toying with the ears of the Gordon setter, which had come sniffing out of curiosity.

“You’re a very obstinate man,” said Squire Moyle.  After a long pause he added, “I suppose you’re wanting odds?”

“Evens will do,” said Sir Harry.

The old man turned and rang the bell.

“Tell Jim to fetch in the red cock,” he shouted to the wall-eyed footman—­who must have been waiting in the corridor, so promptly he appeared.