“Hold your tongue, Jane, for God’s sake,” said Sir Charles, taking her horse by the bridle and backing him from Trefusis.

“I will not.  If you choose to stand here and allow them to walk away with the walls in their pockets, I don’t, and won’t.  Why cannot you make the police do something?”

“They can do nothing,” said Sir Charles, almost beside himself with humiliation.  “I cannot do anything until I see my solicitor.  How can you bear to stay here wrangling with these fellows?  It is so undignified!”

“It’s all very well to talk of dignity, but I don’t see the dignity of letting people trample on our grounds without leave.  Mr. Smilash, will you make them all go away, and tell them that they shall all be prosecuted and put in prison?”

“They are going to the crossroads, to hold a public meeting and—­of course—­make speeches.  I am desired to say that they deeply regret that their demonstration should have disturbed you personally, Lady Brandon.”

“So they ought,” she replied.  “They don’t look very sorry.  They are getting frightened at what they have done, and they would be glad to escape the consequences by apologizing, most likely.  But they shan’t.  I am not such a fool as they think.”

“They don’t think so.  You have proved the contrary.”

“Jane,” said Sir Charles pettishly, “do you know this gentleman?”

“I should think I do,” said Lady Brandon emphatically.

Trefusis bowed as if he had just been formally introduced to the baronet, who, against his will, returned the salutation stiffly, unable to ignore an older, firmer, and quicker man under the circumstances.

“This seems an unneighborly business, Sir Charles,” said Trefusis, quite at his ease; “but as it is a public question, it need not prejudice our private relations.  At least I hope not.”

Sir Charles bowed again, more stiffly than before.

“I am, like you, a capitalist and landlord.”

“Which it seems to me you have no right to be, if you are in earnest,” struck in Chester, who had been watching the scene in silence by Sir Charles’s side.

“Which, as you say, I have undoubtedly no right to be,” said Trefusis, surveying him with interest; “but which I nevertheless cannot help being.  Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Chichester Erskine, author of a tragedy entitled ‘The Patriot Martyrs,’ dedicated with enthusiastic devotion to the Spirit of Liberty and half a dozen famous upholders of that principle, and denouncing in forcible language the tyranny of the late Tsar of Russia, Bomba of Naples, and Napoleon the Third?”

“Yes, sir,” said Erskine, reddening; for he felt that this description might make his drama seem ridiculous to those present who had not read it.

“Then,” said Trefusis, extending his hand—­Erskine at first thought for a hearty shake—­“give me half-a-crown towards the cost of our expedition here to-day to assert the right of the people to tread the soil we are standing upon.”