The moon, at the end of her first quarter, sailed out of the shadow of the churchyard—­the same young moon that had sailed in her silver irony when the first Barter preached, the first Pendyce was Squire at Worsted Skeynes; the same young moon that, serene, ineffable, would come again when the last Barter slept, the last Pendyce was gone, and on their gravestones, through the amethystine air, let fall her gentle light.

The Rector thought: 

’I shall set Stedman to work on that corner.  We must have more room; the stones there are a hundred and fifty years old if they’re a day.  You can’t read a single word.  They’d better be the first to go.’

He passed on along the paddock footway leading to the Squire’s.

Day was gone, and only the moonbeams lighted the tall grasses.

At the Hall the long French windows of the dining-room were open; the Squire was sitting there alone, brooding sadly above the remnants of the fruit he had been eating.  Flanking him on either wall hung a silent company, the effigies of past Pendyces; and at the end, above the oak and silver of the sideboard, the portrait of his wife was looking at them under lifted brows, with her faint wonder.

He raised his head.

“Ah, Barter!  How’s your wife?”

“Doing as well as can be expected.”

“Glad to hear that!  A fine constitution—­wonderful vitality.  Port or claret?”

“Thanks; just a glass of port.”

“Very trying for your nerves.  I know what it is.  We’re different from the last generation; they thought nothing of it.  When Charles was born my dear old father was out hunting all day.  When my wife had George, it made me as nervous as a cat!”

The Squire stopped, then hurriedly added: 

“But you’re so used to it.”

Mr. Barter frowned.

“I was passing Coldingham to-day,” he said.  “I saw Winlow.  He asked after you.”

“Ah!  Winlow!  His wife’s a very nice woman.  They’ve only the one child, I think?”

The Rector winced.

“Winlow tells me,” he said abruptly, “that George has sold his horse.”

The Squire’s face changed.  He glanced suspiciously at Mr. Barter, but the Rector was looking at his glass.

“Sold his horse!  What’s the meaning of that?  He told you why, I suppose?”

The Rector drank off his wine.

“I never ask for reasons,” he said, “where racing-men are concerned.  It’s my belief they know no more what they’re about than so many dumb animals.”

“Ah! racing-men!” said Mr. Pendyce.  “But George doesn’t bet.”

A gleam of humour shot into the Rector’s eyes.  He pressed his lips together.

The Squire rose.

“Come now, Barter!” he said.

The Rector blushed.  He hated tale-bearing—­that is, of course, in the case of a man; the case of a woman was different—­and just as, when he went to Bellew he had been careful not to give George away, so now he was still more on his guard.