It was then that I expressed my appreciation of the dramatic quality of the incident, and was snubbed by his saying,—­

“I suppose you realise just what this may mean, to all of us.”

I had a vivid impression, in the darkness, of that sudden scowl which made him look so absurdly like a youthful version of Sir Edward Carson.

I was wondering why it should mean so much to all of them?  Frank Jervaise had admitted, for all intents and purposes, that he was in love with the chauffeur’s sister, so he, surely, need not have so great an objection.  And, after all, why was the family of Jervaise so much better than the family of Banks?

“I suppose it would be very terrible for you all if she married this chap?” I said.

“Unthinkable,” Jervaise replied curtly.

“It would be worse in a way than your marrying the sister?”

“I should never be such an infernal fool as to do a thing like that,” he returned.

“Has she ... have there been any tender passages between you and Miss Banks?” I asked.

“No,” he snapped viciously.

“You’ve been too careful?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t think she likes me,” he said.

“Oh!” was all my comment.

I needed no more explanations; and I liked Jervaise even less than I had before.  I began to wish that he had not seen fit to confide in me.  I had, thoughtlessly, been dramatising the incident in my mind, but, now, I was aware of the unpleasant reality of it all.  Particularly Jervaise’s part in it.

“Can’t be absolutely certain, of course,” he continued.

“But if she did like you?” I suggested.

“I’ve got to be very careful who I marry,” he explained.  “We aren’t particularly well off.  All our property is in land, and you know what sort of an investment that is, these days.”

I tried another line.  “And if you find your sister up at the Home Farm; and Banks; what are you going to do?”

“Kick him and bring her home,” he said decidedly.

“Nothing else for it, I suppose?” I replied.

“Obviously,” he snarled.

We had come into a wood and it was very dark under the trees.  I wondered why I should restrain the impulse to strangle him and leave him there?  He was no good, and, to me, quite peculiarly objectionable.  It seemed, in what was then my rather fantastic state of mind, that it would be a triumph of whimsicality.  I should certainly have resisted the impulse in any case, but my attention was diverted from it at that moment by a sudden pattering of feet along the leaves of the great trees under which we were walking—­light, clean, sharp, little dancing feet, springing from leaf to leaf—­dozens of them chasing each other, rattling ecstatically up and down the endless terraces of wide foliage.

“Damn it all, it’s beginning to rain like blazes,” remarked the foolish Jervaise.

“How much farther is it?” I asked.