Lionel Segerson held out his hand.  He was a tall, well-built young Devonian, sunburnt, with fair curly hair, a somewhat obstinate type of countenance, and dressed in the dandified fashion of the sporting farmer.

“Glad to know you, Mr. Tallente,” he said, in a tone which lacked enthusiasm.  “I hope you’re going to stay down in these parts for a time?”

Tallente made only a monosyllabic reply, and Lady Jane, with a little gesture of apology, continued her conversation with Segerson.

“I should like you,” she directed, “to see James Crockford for yourself.  Try and explain my views to him—­you know them quite well.  I want him to own his land.  You can tell him that within the last two years I have sold eleven farms to their tenants, and no one could say that I have not done so on easy terms.  But I need further convincing that Crocker is in earnest about the matter, and that he will really work to make his farm a success.  In five good years he has only saved a matter of four hundred pounds, although his rental has been almost insignificant.  That is the worst showing of any of the tenants on the estate, and though if I had more confidence in him I would sell on a mortgage, I don’t feel inclined to until he has shown that he can do better.  Tell him that he can have the farm for two thousand pounds, but he must bring me eight hundred in cash and it must not be borrowed money.  That ought to satisfy him.  He must know quite well that I could get three thousand pounds for it in the open market.”

“These fellows never take any notice of that,” Segerson remarked.  “Ungrateful beggars, all of them.  I’ll tell him what you say, Lady Jane.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?” the young man asked, showing a disposition to linger.

“Nothing, thanks, until to-morrow morning.”  There was even then a slight unwillingness in his departure, which provoked a smile from Lady Jane as the door closed.

“The young men of to-day are terribly spoilt,” she said.  “He expected to be asked to lunch.”

“I am glad he wasn’t,” Tallente observed.

She laughed.

“Why not?  He is quite a nice young man.”

“No doubt,” Tallente agreed, without conviction.  “However, I hate young men and I want to talk to you.”

“Young men are tiresome sometimes,” she agreed, rising from her chair.

“And older ones too, I am afraid!”

She closed her desk and he stood watching her.  She was wearing an extraordinarily masculine garb—­a covert-coating riding costume, with breeches and riding boots concealed under a long coat—­but she contrived, somehow, to remain altogether feminine.  She stood for a moment looking about her, as though wondering whether there were anything else to be done, a capable figure, attractive because of her earnest self-possession.

“Sarah,” she called out.

The sound of a typewriter in an inner room ceased.  The door was opened and a girl appeared on the threshold.