“It is a name for everything that is good and gentle and lovely—­“A moment more and passion would have melted all the icy barriers prudence and craft had reared round this deep heart.  His voice was trembling, his cheek flushing; but he was saved by—­an enemy.  “Susan!” cried a threatening voice at the door, and there stood William Fielding with a look to match.

Rage burned in Meadows’ heart.  He said bruskly, “Come in,” and seizing a slip of paper he wrote five words on it, and taking out a book flung it into the passage to Crawley.  He then turned toward W. Fielding, who by this time had walked up to Susan.  Was on the other side of the screen.

“Was told you had gone in here,” said William quietly, “so I came after you.”

“Now that was very attentive of you,” replied Susan ironically.  “It is so nice to have a sensible young man like you following forever at one’s heels—­like a dog.”

A world of quiet scorn embellished this little remark.

William’s reply was happier than usual.  “The sheep find the dog often in their way, but they are all the safer for him.”

“Well, I’m sure,” cried Susan, her scorn giving way to anger.

Mr. Meadows put in:  “I must trouble you to treat Miss Merton with proper respect when you speak to her in my house.”

“Who respects her more than I?” retorted William; “but you see, Mr. Meadows, sheep are no match for wolves when the dog is away—­so the dog is here.”

“I see the dog is here and by his own invitation; all I say is that if the dog is to stay here he must behave like a man.”

William gasped at this hit; he didn’t trust himself to answer Meadows; in fact, a blow of his fist seemed to him the only sufficient answer—­he turned to Susan.  “Susan, do you remember poor George’s last words to me? with a tear in his eye and his hand in mine.  Well, I keep my promise to him—­I keep my eye upon such as I think capable of undermining my brother.  This man is a schemer, Susan, and you are too simple to fathom him.”

The look of surprise crafty Meadows put on here, and William Fielding’s implied compliment to his own superior sagacity struck Susan as infinitely ludicrous, and she looked at Meadows and laughed like a peal of bells.  Of course he looked at her and laughed with her.  At this all young Fielding’s self-restraint went to the winds, and he went on—­“But sooner than that, I’ll twist as good a man’s neck as ever schemed in Jack Meadows’ shoes!”

At this defiance Meadows wheeled round on William Fielding and confronted him with his stalwart person and eyes glowing with gloomy wrath.  Susan screamed with terror at William’s insulting words and at the attitude of the two men, and she made a step to throw herself between them if necessary; but before words could end in blows a tap at the study door caused a diversion, and a cringing sort of voice said “May I come in?”

“Of course you may,” shouted Meadows; “the place is public.  Anybody walks into my room to-day, friend or foe.  Don’t ask my leave—­come in, man, whoever you are—­Mr. Crawley; well, I didn’t expect a call from you any more than from this one.”