“Well?” said Jack.

Jenny hesitated a moment.

“I suppose anyone else would have called him violent,” she said.  “Poor old dear!  But it seems to me he behaved rather well on the whole—­considering all things.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“If one took anything he said as containing any truth at all, it would mean that he was going to flog Frank with his own hands, kick him first up the steps of the house then down again, and finally drown him in the lake with a stone round his neck.  I think that was the sort of programme.”

“But—­”

“Oh! we needn’t be frightened,” said Jenny.  “But if you ask me what he will do, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Did you suggest anything?”

“He knows what my views are,” said jenny.

“And those?”

“Well—­make him a decent allowance and let him alone.”

“He won’t do that!” said Jack.  “That’s far too sensible.”

“You think so?”

“That would solve the whole problem, of course,” went on Jack, “marriage and everything.  I suppose it would have to be about eight hundred a year.  And Talgarth must have at least thirty thousand.”

“Oh! he’s more than that,” said Jenny.  “He gives Mr. Dick twelve hundred.”

There was a pause.  Jack did not know what to think.  He was only quite certain that the thing would have been far worse if he had attempted to manage it himself.

“Well, what shall I say to Frank?” he asked.  Jenny paused again.

“It seems to me the best thing for you to do is not to write.  I’ll write myself this evening, if you’ll give me his address, and explain—­”

“I can’t do that,” said Jack.  “I’m awfully sorry, but—­”

“You can’t give me his address?”

“No, I’m afraid I mustn’t.  You see, Frank’s very particular in his letter....”

“Then how can I write to him?  Mr. Kirkby, you’re really rather—­”

“By George!  I’ve got it!” cried Jack.  “If you don’t mind my waiting at the Rectory.  Why shouldn’t you write to him now, and let me take the letter away and post it?  It’ll go all the quicker, too, from Barham.”

He glanced at her, wondering whether she were displeased.  Her answer reassured him.

“That’ll do perfectly,” she said, “if you’re sure you don’t mind waiting.”

The Rectory garden seemed more than ever a harbor from storm as they turned into it.  The sun was a little lower now, and the whole lawn lay in shadow.  As they came to the door she stopped.

“I think I’d better go and get it over,” she said.  “I can tell father all about it after you’ve gone.  Will you go now and wait there?” She nodded towards the seat where they had sat together earlier.

* * * * *

But it was nearly an hour before she came out again, and a neat maid, in apron and cap, had come discreetly out with the tea-things, set them down and retired.