“No, I will not go back the way I came,” Bertram responded deliberately, with perfect self-control, and with a side-glance at Frida.  “Every human being has a natural right to walk across this copse, which is all waste ground, and has no crop sown in it.  The pheasants can’t be yours; they’re common property.  Besides, there’s a lady.  We mean to make our way across the copse at our leisure, picking flowers as we go, and come out into the road on the other side of the spinney.  It’s a universal right of which no country and no law can possibly deprive us.”

Sir Lionel was livid with rage.  Strange as it may appear to any reasoning mind, the man really believed he had a natural right to prevent people from crossing that strip of wood where his pheasants were sitting.  His ancestors had assumed it from time immemorial, and by dint of never being questioned had come to regard the absurd usurpation as quite fair and proper.  He placed himself straight across the narrow path, blocking it up with his short and stumpy figure.  “Now look here, young man,” he said, with all the insolence of his caste:  “if you try to go on, I’ll stand here in your way; and if you dare to touch me, it’s a common assault, and, by George, you’ll have to answer at law for the consequences.”

Bertram Ingledew for his part was all sweet reasonableness.  He raised one deprecating hand.  “Now, before we come to open hostilities,” he said in a gentle voice, with that unfailing smile of his, “let’s talk the matter over like rational beings.  Let’s try to be logical.  This copse is considered yours by the actual law of the country you live in:  your tribe permits it to you:  you’re allowed to taboo it.  Very well, then; I make all possible allowances for your strange hallucination.  You’ve been brought up to think you had some mystic and intangible claim to this corner of earth more than other people, your even Christians.  That claim, of course, you can’t logically defend; but failing arguments, you want to fight for it.  Wouldn’t it be more reasonable, now, to show you had some right or justice in the matter?  I’m always reasonable:  if you can convince me of the propriety and equity of your claim, I’ll go back as you wish by the way I entered.  If not—­well, there’s a lady here, and I’m bound, as a man, to help her safely over.”

Sir Lionel almost choked.  “I see what you are,” he gasped out with difficulty.  “I’ve heard this sort of rubbish more than once before.  You’re one of these damned land-nationalising radicals.”

“On the contrary,” Bertram answered, urbane as ever, with charming politeness of tone and manner:  “I’m a born conservative.  I’m tenacious to an almost foolishly sentimental degree of every old custom or practice or idea; unless, indeed, it’s either wicked or silly—­like most of your English ones.”