The spaniel John rose heavily, looked sardonically at Mr. Barter, and again flopped down against his master’s leg.

“Get up, John,” said Mr. Pendyce again.  The spaniel John snored.

‘If I move, you’ll move too, and uncertainty will begin for me again,’ he seemed to say.

Mr. Pendyce disengaged his leg, rose, and went to the door.  Before reaching it he turned and came back to the table.

“Barter,” he said, “I’m not thinking of myself—­I’m not thinking of myself—­we’ve been here for generations—­it’s the principle.”  His face had the least twist to one side, as though conforming to a kink in his philosophy; his eyes looked sad and restless.

And the Rector, watching the door for the sight of his enemy, also thought: 

’I’m not thinking of myself—­I’m satisfied that I did right—­I’m Rector of this parish it’s the principle.’

The spaniel John gave three short barks, one for each of the persons who entered the room.  They were Mrs. Pendyce, Mr. Paramor, and Gregory Vigil.

“Where’s George?” asked the Squire, but no one answered him.

The Rector, who had resumed his seat, stared at a little gold cross which he had taken out of his waistcoat pocket.  Mr. Paramor lifted a vase and sniffed at the rose it contained; Gregory walked to the window.

When Mr. Pendyce realised that his son had not come, he went to the door and held it open.

“Be good enough to take John out, Margery,” he said.  “John!”

The spaniel John, seeing what lay before him, rolled over on his back.

Mrs. Pendyce fixed her eyes on her husband, and in those eyes she put all the words which the nature of a lady did not suffer her to speak.

‘I claim to be here.  Let me stay; it is my right.  Don’t send me away.’  So her eyes spoke, and so those of the spaniel John, lying on his back, in which attitude he knew that he was hard to move.

Mr. Pendyce turned him over with his foot.

“Get up, John!  Be good enough to take John out, Margery.”

Mrs. Pendyce flushed, but did not move.

“John,” said Mr. Pendyce, “go with your mistress.”  The spaniel John fluttered a drooping tail.  Mr. Pendyce pressed his foot to it.

“This is not a subject for women.”

Mrs. Pendyce bent down.

“Come, John,” she said.  The spaniel John, showing the whites of his eyes, and trying to back through his collar, was assisted from the room.  Mr. Pendyce closed the door behind them.

“Have a glass of port, Vigil; it’s the ’47.  My father laid it down in ’56, the year before he died.  Can’t drink it myself—­I’ve had to put down two hogsheads of the Jubilee wine.  Paramor, fill your glass.  Take that chair next to Paramor, Vigil.  You know Barter?”

Both Gregory’s face and the Rector’s were very red.

“We’re all Harrow men here,” went on Mr. Pendyce.  And suddenly turning to Mr. Paramor, he said:  “Well?”