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Fishpingle sat down to his desk and busied himself with some papers. He thought it likely that Prudence might return, but she didn’t. The butler lit a pipe, rose from his chair, and crossed to the fireplace. Upon the mantel-shelf, framed alike in handsome leather frames, stood three photographs—Sir Geoffrey, in hunting kit, which became him admirably, Lady Pomfret, and Lionel Pomfret in the uniform of the Rifle Brigade. Fishpingle gazed intently at the portrait of his mistress. It happened to be an admirable likeness, recently taken. Fishpingle’s face softened, as he murmured something to himself. Perhaps he was thinking that here indeed was that rare bird—a lady of quality, the porcelain clay of human kind. The gracious curves of face and person, the kind, thoughtful eyes, heavily lidded, the sweet mouth, the delicately cut nose—all these attributes indicated race. One glance at such a portrait would inform any observer that Sir Geoffrey had been fortunate in his choice of a wife. And the same observer might have hazarded the conjecture that the lady was well content with her husband and life. Obviously, too, that life had been sheltered, lavender-scented, fragrant with all odours of woods and fields, untainted by what is offensive and cruel and urban.

“Bless her!” ejaculated Fishpingle.

He turned to the portrait of her son, a smiling stripling, who had inherited the delicate features of his mother, and, apparently, none of his father’s rugged health and massive physique. Fishpingle frowned a little. But he smiled again when he glanced at the Squire’s bluff, jolly face. Meanwhile his pipe had gone out. He relit it, walked to the door, called for Alfred, at work in the pantry, and then sat down in the big armchair.

Alfred’s voice was heard humming a tune. He stopped humming as he came in.

“Sit down,” said Fishpingle.

Alfred, rather surprised, perched himself upon the edge of a chair. Fishpingle puffed at his pipe. After a moment or two, he removed it from his lips, saying abruptly:

“So you want to marry Prudence?”

Alfred betrayed astonishment.

“The lil’ besom told ’ee?”

Fishpingle shook his head.

“How did ’ee find out?”

“Never mind that! The powers of observation, my lad, so singularly lacking in you, are sharpened to a finer edge in me.”

In dealing with his subordinates, Fishpingle’s copious vocabulary and choice of English never failed to astonish and confound. It was known, of course, that he had been educated above his station because his mother had been the favourite maid of Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, and later he had served as valet to his present master. But even these well-established facts were inadequate to the bucolic intelligence. A spice of mystery remained. Fishpingle ended on a sharper note:

“You want her?”

Alfred leant forward, speaking very emphatically:

“Aye—that I do. She be the sweetest lil’ maid in Wiltsheer, she be.”

“Um! And Prudence wants you, hey?”

Alfred grinned. Beneath the crust of an upper-servant’s manner, he caught a glimpse of that rare and refreshing fruit—sympathy. And he was well aware of the butler’s affection for his kinswoman.

“Ah-h-h! When she were a settin’ on my knee las’ night, with her dinky arms roun’ my neck, and her lil’ mouth——”

“That will do,” said Fishpingle, drily. “Obviously, the maid wants you. Now, let me see—your grandfather lived to a ripe old age, didn’t he?”

Alfred nodded eagerly.

“Granfer, he lived to be a hundred an’ two. Yas, he did. An’ he could carry more ale, an’ mead, an’ cider, wi’out showing it, than any man in Nether Applewhite. An’ smokin’ like a chimbley all the time. A most wonnerful man was granfer.”

Fishpingle pursed up his lips, judicially, and his tone became magisterial.

“But your father is dead, Alfred. What killed him?”

Alfred laughed incredulously. Let it not be imputed to him for heartlessness.

“You ain’t never forgotten how pore dear father died. Mother killed un.”

“Nonsense, my lad.”

“’Tis true as true. Mother, pore soul, she put carbolic acid in an ale bottle. Father—you mind he was Sir Geoffrey’s shepherd?” Fishpingle inclined his head. “Well, he come home-along tarr’ble thirsty, an’, dang me! if he didn’t take a swig out o’ ale bottle. Doctor said ’twould have killed any other man in two jiffs, but father he lived two hours in most tarr’ble agony. ’Twas a very sad mishap.”

Alfred sniffed, overcome by his emotions. Fishpingle nodded.

“I’m sorry, my boy. My memory is not quite what it was. Well, it seems that Prudence wants you and that you want her.”

Alfred smiled again. He began to plead his case excitedly.

“I’ve money in bank, I have. And strong arms to work and fend for her. God A’mighty knows I be fair achin’ for her. I earns good wages, I do. And when you retire, sir, I be countin’ on steppin’ into your shoes.”

“You’ll never quite fill them.”

“That be sober truth. I’ve a dinky lil’ foot I have.”

“You can go.”

Alfred jumped up.

“Then it be right and tight seemin’ly?”

Fishpingle looked at him.

“Suppose Sir Geoffrey objected?”

Alfred laughed gaily.

“You can get round un. We all knows that. ’Tis the common sayin’ that you be lard o’ the monor of Nether Applewhite in all but name.”

“Off with you!”

Alfred burst into song.

“And now I’ll marry my own pretty maid,

So handsome, and so cle—ver!”

Fishpingle held up his hand.

“Don’t sing! And—not a word of this to Prudence till I’ve spoken to her.”

Alfred nodded and withdrew.

Alone, once more, Fishpingle moved restlessly about the room. He was sensible of some premonition of trouble, some lurking doubt of his power to smooth the path of these simple lovers, some fear that interference on his part might be obstinately resented. Work might have distracted him, but for the moment there was not work enough for two able-bodied footmen, not to mention the odd man, who laboured more abundantly than them all.

He sat down at the Sheraton bureau, and took from a drawer a much battered tin box, which he opened with a small key attached to his watch chain. The box held some letters and a miniature. In his less robust moments, when any really pressing appeal happened to be made to his sentimental side, a side carefully hidden from Nether Applewhite, Fishpingle was in the habit of opening this box, and looking at the miniature. He might, if the necessity were really importunate, read a letter or two. He had picked up the miniature when a tap at the door was heard.

“Come in.”

Prudence appeared. Fishpingle was not deceived by her self-composed and almost valiant deportment. He knew that she had missed “elevenses” and had spent at least a quarter of an hour crying in her room, and as much time again in repairing the ravages wrought by tears. As he was expecting her, and didn’t wish her to know it, he expressed a mild surprise.

“Is everybody as idle as I am in this house?”

She perched herself upon his knee, put one arm round his neck, and kissed his forehead.

“Dear Uncle Ben,” she cooed.

“Cupboard love, my dear. I know why you are here. I know what you want—Alfred.”

“What a man you be!”

“Don’t you want him? Speak up!”

She put her lips to his ear and whispered. “Yes, I do. There!”

“And you came here to tell me this?”

“N—no.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Because of what Sir Geoffrey said. What did he mean? What did he mean?”

Fishpingle felt her cheek rubbed softly against his. The little witch meant to abuse her powers. And her sweetness, the artlessness of her avowal, were irresistible. Indecision took to its heels. Then and there he registered a vow to fight on the lover’s side, to fight, if need be, to a finish. He said tentatively:

“About eugenics?”

She slipped from his knee, fetched a foot-stool, and sat down upon it, clasping his hand in hers.

“Tell about eugannicks, Uncle Ben.”

For the second time that morning he noticed that the maid was in sunlight, whereas he sat in shadow. And her voice, eager, youthful, vibrant with feeling, seemed to ring out of the sunlight, whereas his own grave inflections floated quietly out of the shadowy past.

“It would come better from your mother, Prue.”

“Mother be manglin’ to-day. ’Tis easier to talk to ’ee than her, so busy she be from marnin’ till night. An’ I brought my troubles to ’ee, Uncle Ben, when I was a lil’ maid. Squire said that a marriage ’atween cousins ’d be dis—astrous. If he were talkin’ eugannicks, why then I hate an’ despise eugannicks—yas, I do.”

“He was talking eugenics. Sir Geoffrey is a great gentleman, Prue. There are not many left like him. He lives on his own land, he spends all his money amongst his own people.”

Prudence said sharply:

“Squire ain’t too much to spend, seeminly.”

“True enough. He’s land poor. It’s been a struggle ever since I can remember. And I’ve been here all my life. And I know Squire better—better than he knows himself.”

Prudence observed more cheerfully:

“We all says that.”

He pressed her hand. She divined somehow that he was speaking with difficulty, speaking rather to himself than to her, conjuring up a picture which she beheld but dimly.

“You are little more than a child, but have you ever thought of what it means when two persons live together and work together for fifty years?”

“I have thought o’ that lately, Uncle Ben.”

“Eugenics begin there, my maid. Two persons living together and working together, not entirely for themselves but for others. Now, Prue, have you thought of the others?”

“What others?” she whispered.

“Your—children.”

“Ye—es. But I hope there won’t be too many o’ they, uncle.”

“Mind your grammar. You speak well enough before the quality. Now, child, I’ve broken the ice for a modest maid. Eugenics mean care and thought for those who come after us. Sir Geoffrey looks upon all of you as his children. He gave up the hounds to build more cottages. He takes a real interest in every colt and lamb and calf and child born in Nether Applewhite.”

Prudence considered this, with her head on one side.

“He must get fair dazed and mazed, pore man,” she declared.

“Occasionally he does. Look at me, Prue.”

She lifted her clear eyes to his, listening attentively as he went on—

“Rightly or wrongly, Sir Geoffrey dislikes marriages between folk who are near of kin.”

Prudence pouted.

“’Tis right and proper that a maid may not marry her granfer, but cousins——”

Fishpingle tried to explain that any taint, any predisposition to disease, is likely to come out with greater virulence in the children of those persons who are of kin. Prudence, however, remained unconvinced. She jumped up and stood proudly before him.

“But, Uncle Ben, we be strong and hearty as never was, me and Alfie.”

“If I can make that clear to Sir Geoffrey——”

“To be sure you can, and you will.”

To her amazement and distress his tone, as he answered her, sounded unconvincing and troubled.

“Perhaps. I—I hope so. He can be very—obstinate.”

“You be more obstinate than he.”

Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Fishpingle was not proof against this. Suddenly she flung herself into his arms, sobbing passionately. Between her sobs he could hear a strangled voice repeating miserably:

“I can’t live without Alfie, no, I can’t.”

He stroked her head till she grew calmer. He was wondering, not for the first time, at the force of love, its violence in primitive natures, its effect upon such an artless maid as this, and lastly the danger involved in thwarting and diverting from its normal channel so devastating a stream. And the resolution to help this confiding, helpless creature gathered increasing will-power and direction. When she grew calmer, he said softly:

“You can’t live without Alfred? Come, come, I have lived all these years without a wife.”

As he spoke, he was sensible that an older, more experienced woman might have turned upon him fiercely, asking him if such an abstention, whether voluntary or forced, was to be commended. And when Prudence left his encircling arm and lifted widely-opened eyes to his, he almost winced before their mute interrogation. But the maid only murmured gently:

“That be true. Uncle Ben, dear, whatever made ’ee stay single? Do tell!”

Should he speak or hold his peace? Her violence had affected him most strangely, broken down barriers of silence, self-imposed. The wish to speak gripped him. And the right word at such a moment might be a warning now and a solace hereafter if—if his plans went agley. He said very quietly:

“My Christian name is Benoni.”

Prudence observed promptly—

“Benoni, so mother tells me, come slam-bang out o’ the Holy Book.”

“Yes. Did your mother tell you what Benoni means?” She shook her head. “It means in Hebrew—a son of sorrow.”

She stared at him, trying to interpret a new and strange kinsman. Pity informed her face, and then she smiled, recalling the old and familiar Uncle Ben.

“But you bain’t sorrowful, dear heart.”

“I hope not. I count myself, Prue, a happy man. But sorrow brought me into the world, sorrow brought me to Nether Applewhite.”

As her imagination grappled with his calm statement, Fishpingle sat down. She knelt beside him, forgetting her own troubles as she gazed anxiously into his kind face.

“Surely your mother has given you some—hint?”

Prudence affirmed positively that this was not the case. She added proudly that her mother was no talker; one who kept herself to herself as became a respectable mother of ten. Fishpingle continued:

“Your grandmother was my mother’s sister.”

“I know that.”

“My mother was the prettiest maid in Nether Applewhite; clever, too, quick with her tongue, as you are—and quick with her needle, as you aren’t.”

“Now, Uncle Ben!”

His voice lost its more familiar intonations and became impersonal and dreamy.

“She became lady’s maid to Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, Lady Alicia Pomfret. She went about with her everywhere. She ran away with my father. And when I was born she—died.”

Prudence shivered.

“Oh, dear! You never saw your own mother?”

He picked up the miniature.

“This, child, is her portrait.”

Prudence looked at it and kissed it.

“Thank you, Prue,” said Fishpingle. He took the miniature from her and placed it with the letters in the tin box.

“Before my mother died, she sent for Lady Alicia, her old mistress. Her ladyship took charge of me and brought me here.”

“But your father, Uncle Ben? Didn’t he want you?”

“He was not his own master. He married again later on. A small provision was made for me, not much. That is all. What I have told you is between our two selves. Promise?”

“I promise and vow! But why didn’t you marry? A man must love somebody.”

“I have loved Sir Geoffrey, Master Lionel, her ladyship and you.”

He kissed her tenderly, and she rose to her feet. In his ordinary tone he said:

“Be off to your work. If Mrs. Randall asks any questions, you can say that I had need of you.”

She hesitated.

“I have need of you, Uncle Ben. I shan’t eat nor sleep unless you tell me that I shall get Alfie.”

“Sir Geoffrey instructed me just now to tell you something very different. You are to find another young man.”

Her face fell dolorously. Fishpingle’s eyes twinkled, and his square chin obtruded itself.

“But I tell you, Prudence, to do nothing of the sort.”

She laughed.

“I shall obey you, uncle.”

Like Alfred, she burst into song as she flitted down the corridor.

Fishpingle locked the tin box and put it away. Then he saw to it that Alfred and the second footman, a singularly raw youth, were diligently at work in the pantry. The second footman had been taken, so to speak, from the plough-tail because Sir Geoffrey had stood sponsor for him, and it was an idiosyncrasy of the Squire’s to keep an eye upon his god-children, rather to the disgust of Fishpingle, who set an inordinate value upon old plate, and much to the amusement of Lady Pomfret. Having rated the second footman soundly, Fishpingle went into the dining-room, where a small table in the big oriel window was laid for two. Upon the walls hung portraits of dead and gone Pomfrets, and in the centre of the room stood the great mahogany table at which many of them had made merry. Fishpingle frowned as his eyes rested upon the portrait of Sir Guy Pomfret, the present baronet’s grandfather, a gentleman of fashion, who had played skittles with a fine fortune. Beside him, painted by the same artist, hung the portrait of Lady Alicia, his kind friend and protector. He owed his education to this stately dame, and much else beside. Fishpingle smiled pleasantly at her.

Having satisfied himself that the luncheon table was in order, he opened one of the casement windows and gazed placidly at the park, which sloped with charming undulations to the Avon. His glance lingered with affection upon the ancient yews thriving amazingly upon a thin, chalky soil. They had been here before the Pomfrets! There was a particular yew in Nether Applewhite churchyard mentioned in Doomsday Book. Out of some of these yews had been fashioned the bows of Crécy and Agincourt.

He wondered whether the old order of landed gentry were doomed. The parson, Mr. Hamlin, a bit of a Radical, held iconoclastic views. According to this reverend gentleman, who much enjoyed an argument, great estates, and in particular those which suffered from lack of ready money, would share the fate of similar properties in France, and be duly apportioned amongst a triumphant democracy to the betterment of the majority. Fishpingle loathed such a possibility, the more so because the parson’s arguments were hard nuts to crack. Such a man, upon such an estate, provoked surprise and exasperation. Fishpingle knew that he had been offered the living because he was famous as a cricketer. The Squire believed in muscular Christianity. After the irreparable event came the soul-shattering discovery that the parson supported Mr. Gladstone. A three acres and a cow fellow!

A May sun illumined the landscape. The dining-room faced due east, and to the west, beyond the woods which fringed the park, stretched the New Forest. Sir Geoffrey hunted with both fox-hounds and buck-hounds, and Fishpingle could well remember the days, not long passed, when the house at this spring season was hospitably full of “thrusters” from the shires, keen to kill a May fox in the most beautiful woodlands in England. Economy prohibited such lavish entertainment now that rents were falling with the price of corn and the rate of living steadily rising.

A soft voice put to flight these reflections.

“Ah, Ben, I thought I should find you here.”

Fishpingle turned hastily to behold his mistress smiling at him.

Fishpingle never looked at her without reflecting that no artist could possibly do her justice. Others, but no better judges, shared this conviction. A delicate bisque figure, moulded by Spengler, would lose its charm if painted. Lady Pomfret suggested the finest bisque, and yet colour radiated from her, those soft tints which seem to defy reproduction. She was past fifty, matronly in person, but youth remained, an inalienable possession. The consciousness that she was beloved may have kept ardent this dancing flame, for love is the supreme beauty doctor. To this great gift some fairy godmother had added a lively sense of humour constantly exercised by the wife of Sir Geoffrey. And, in every way, she was his happy complement. He believed, honest fellow, that he ruled his wife. Fishpingle knew that he became as wax beneath her slender, pliable fingers. Long ago, she had accepted his disabilities as part and parcel of the man she loved. His quick temper, his prejudices and predilections growing stronger with advancing years, his too hasty conclusions and judgments endeared the Squire to her. And she knew that he adored her, had remained the gallant lover of her girlhood, prodigal in attentions which delight women. Invariably he saw her to her carriage; he rose when she entered a room; he brought her flowers and such simple oblations; he paid her compliments. He exacted from others the respect which he rendered so spontaneously to her.

Lady Pomfret approached Fishpingle and said confidentially:

“The Squire is upset this morning.”

Fishpingle, slyly aware that this was the thin edge of the wedge, and that Sir Geoffrey had attempted to enlist his wife upon his side and against the lovers, assigned to the Squire’s discomposure what he knew to be the wrong reason.

“I told him the mare was not up to his weight.”

“That distressed him; it wasn’t that.”

“Might have been the sheep, my lady.”

“It might have been, but it wasn’t. I think, Ben, that you are well aware of the real reason. Now, why have you made this match?”

Fishpingle made a gesture of repudiation. Lady Pomfret laughed.

“I can guess that Nature was the matchmaker, not you. It is unfortunate that they are cousins.”

“Why so, my lady? There is no danger in such matches, where the strain on both sides is clean and sound. That is Sir Geoffrey’s own view.”

Lady Pomfret held up a protesting finger.

“My dear Ben, I cannot talk eugenics with you, because I should be confounded by your superior knowledge. What I want to ask you is this: are the young people deeply attached to each other, or is it a mere passing flirtation?”

He answered her positively.

“They are deeply attached, my lady. I can assure you that it is no passing fancy, but the real thing.”

“Does an old crusty bachelor flatter himself that he knows the real thing?”

“He does, my lady.”

Lady Pomfret laughed gaily. The freedom and familiarity of her intercourse with this faithful servant were the greater because she knew that he was incapable of abusing his privileges.

“Ben,” she continued, “I am quite sure that your fighting instincts have been aroused. Don’t shake your head! I know you, and you know me. The Squire is thinking of sending Alfred away, but I ventured to point out to him that he was a most excellent servant, who understood our ways, and that poor Charles, his godson”—she chuckled—“was hardly ready for promotion. That gave him pause. Now I suggest to you the propriety of marking time. Youth can wait, and so can Age. This tempest in our teapot will blow over. And— strictly between ourselves—we must give undivided attention to a match which more seriously concerns the fortunes of our family.”

Fishpingle became alert instantly.

“Master Lionel is coming home,” he exclaimed. “This is great news, my lady, wonderful news.”

“We don’t know for certain, Ben. It is probable. And then——!”

“And then?”

She recovered her sprightliness, which had vanished at mention of her son. He was with his regiment in India. He had exchanged from an English battalion because his lungs were none too strong. The dreadful word was never spoken, but Fishpingle knew that a slight but unmistakable tendency to consumption had manifested itself. There was reason to believe that the young fellow had grown more robust in the Punjab. But the taint, the predisposition, had been inherited from his mother’s family, the Belwethers.

Lady Pomfret’s eyes twinkled.

“He has not been allured by any girl in India. I have his positive assurance on that.”

Fishpingle made no reply. He was wondering whether his mistress could assign a reason for this indifference, a reason divined rather than known to himself. From the guileless expression of her face, he could draw no inference save this: that she was less guileless, where her own flesh and blood might be concerned, than she appeared. He waited patiently for further enlightenment. He perceived, moreover, that Lady Pomfret was in a rarely expansive mood.

“If we could pick and choose for him!”

“Ah!”

“Money is sadly needed, Ben.”

Each sighed, thinking of necessary things left undone—sterile acres that cried aloud for fertilisers; farm-buildings falling into disrepair; grumbling tenants; the long, dreary catalogue of “wants” upon an impoverished estate.

“You have great influence with the Squire, Ben.”

She spoke with significance. Fishpingle smiled. The dear lady had sought him with a definite object in view, which she would reveal after her own fashion. In this case, it was revealed sooner than she had intended, for she “gave herself away” by allowing her eyes to linger upon the finest picture in the dining-room, a magnificent Sir Joshua, a full-length portrait of a Pomfret beauty. At once Fishpingle stiffened and became impassive.

“You don’t approve?”

Her feminine quickness of apprehension on such occasions as these always disconcerted him. He realised that he, in his turn, had “given himself away.”

“Sell that? Never, my lady.”

She shrugged her shoulders, regarding him ironically, reflecting with ever-increasing amazement that long service with the Pomfrets had positively turned him into a Pomfret, that he had become blind, like his master, to what was so crystal clear to her—the necessity of sacrifice, of lopping off superabundant growth to save a splendid tree.

“It is worth twenty thousand pounds, Ben.”

He remained silent. Undismayed, she tried again.

“That outlying strip of building property, eh? Would it be missed?”

Fishpingle grunted. It was futile to discuss such matters with a Belwether. Everybody knew that their estates had melted away by just such a process of constant disintegration. He said vehemently:

“Your ladyship knows that the most valuable pictures are heirlooms.”

“That could be got over with Master Lionel’s consent.”

So, she had taken expert opinion! A sweet lady, but a crafty.

“All the land is strictly entailed.”

“So you have told me before, but that, too, could be arranged, if the necessity of breaking the entailment were made plain.”

Fishpingle let himself go. To the amusement of his mistress, he became for the moment the Squire, using the Squire’s familiar gestures, taking words often in his mouth.

“My lady, Sir Geoffrey may be right about this, or he may be wrong, but what he inherited from his father cannot be sold. He will pass it on to his son. That is part of his religion.”

“And yours?”

The sharp question, so quietly spoken, took him aback. She continued quickly:

“You feel as he does about this supremely important matter, but why—why? That is a mystery to me. I can understand his feelings about his own property, not yours. Have you no sense of detachment, Ben? Can you not see, as I see, the issues involved?”

Her voice faltered. Fishpingle became acutely distressed. He said entreatingly:

“My lady, I would do anything, anything, to serve you and yours, but not this one thing. It would mean the beginning of the end. Every Pomfret before Sir Guy added to this property till it became what it is. You know that the Squire would give his right hand if he, too, would carry on the family tradition and buy, not sell. As for the issues involved, I think I see them plainly. Sir Geoffrey sees them. He does not shrink from them. Nor do you, I know.”

“Ah! you don’t quite know, but go on.”

“Expenses must be cut down. Economy in management, better organisation and better prices, which must come, will pull us through.”

She retorted sombrely:

“Better prices may not come, and my son is coming home.”

“Master Lionel, my lady, will think as his father thinks.”

“Ben, you make things hard for me.”

She sat down, folding her hands upon her lap. Her expression indicated resignation, feminine weakness. Fishpingle was not deceived. The battle was not over, but beginning. Her ladyship had cleared her decks for action.

“I can’t quite follow you, my lady.”

“You will in a moment,” her tone brightened. Outside, she could hear Sir Geoffrey rating a retriever. That meant freedom from interruption. In five minutes the faithful Ben would be enlightened. She asked him to sit down. He did so with a premonition of defeat.

“Has it occurred to you, my dear old friend, that the simplest solution of our problem might be found if Lionel married money?”

Fishpingle flushed a little. The delicate flattery of leaving out the formal pretext to her son’s son, the tacit assurance that she suspended for a moment the difficult relationship between mistress and man, produced its intended effect.

“I have often thought of it, my lady.”

“Then you will admit that Lionel is placed in a false position?”

Fishpingle winced. She had pierced, at the first thrust, the joint in his armour.

“He might be,” he admitted.

“He is in it already. God forbid that direct pressure should be used. The Squire is incapable of that. Because we should not use such pressure, the dear fellow might apply it himself. And if—if, Ben, he happened to fall in love with a charming, penniless girl——”

Her voice died away. Fishpingle tried to read her thoughts and failed helplessly. Did she suspect that there was such an attachment already? After a pause she went on:

“That would be a great trial and disappointment to his father.”

Fishpingle opened his mouth and closed it.

“You know that, Ben, as well as I do. There are many nice girls with money. Sir Geoffrey, poor dear man, is picking and choosing half a dozen such, but our son can be trusted to make his own choice.”

“Yes,” said Fishpingle.

“If you had to choose, Ben, between the selling of that Reynolds and the building land and Lionel’s future happiness would you hesitate a moment?”

“Not a moment, my lady.”

“I was quite sure of that.”

She rose, smiling placidly. Fishpingle rose with her. Nothing more was to be said. The conqueror held out her hand.

“You are a true friend, Ben, loyal and—discreet.”

With that Parthian shot, she went her way.