Nether-Applewhite Vicarage, which adjoined the small church, lay snugly
within the park, less than half a mile from Pomfret Court. Below it was
the village through which flowed the placid Avon. In the days of Mr.
Hamlin’s predecessor, a cadet of the Pomfret family, the proximity of
vicarage to hall had been regarded as an advantage. The Squire shot and
hunted with his parson, who was assuredly not the worse parson for being
a sportsman, and each strolled in and out of the other’s house half a
dozen times a week. This pleasant and profitable intercourse lasted till
the death of the parson. It has been said that Mr. Hamlin was a Radical,
but in justice to the Squire it must be added that political differences
might easily have been overcome, inasmuch as Sir Geoffrey disliked all
politicians, and, although a staunch supporter of the Conservative
Association in his Division, confessed handsomely that political
arguments bored him to tears. And when his old friend and kinsman passed
away, he had sought diligently for his successor and believed fondly
that he had found him. Even now, after fifteen years of bickering and
increasing estrangement, Sir Geoffrey would have admitted frankly that
Hamlin had justified his selection. He was a hard worker and
popular—perhaps a shade too popular—in a large straggling parish.
More, he preached short rousing sermons which concerned themselves more
with conduct than dogma. Since his incumbency, there had been less
drunkenness, obscenity, and scandal-mongering. Indeed, in weightier
matters, the Squire and he saw eye to eye. They differed hopelessly
about non-essentials. Hamlin, a High Churchman, had introduced certain
harmless practices, genuflections and the like, into the Ritual. Lady
Pomfret was amused at these antics upon the part of a big fellow who
could hit a cricket ball for six. Not so the Squire. He rocked with
rage. Finally, he rose from his knees, and stumped out of church. A
letter was despatched, worded not too temperately. Mr. Hamlin became
less acrobatic in front of the altar. The Squire realised that he had
behaved hastily. The two men might have become friends after this
regrettable incident had the rabbits on the estate been less prolific.
As a matter of fact, they increased and multiplied against the
particular orders of the Squire. The parson, unhappily, was not aware of
this. Most indiscreetly, he took upon himself to write a letter to Sir
Geoffrey making a personal matter of it. He received what the autocrat
of Nether-Applewhite called a “stinger.” Hamlin apologised, but the
mischief had been done. Lastly—one hesitates to record such a
trifle—the parson was a total abstainer, not a bigot, nor one to force
his opinions instead of wine down a guest’s throat, but all the same, a
man who passed the decanter with a certain air of superiority. Mrs.
Hamlin, who had helped to keep the peace, was dead. Hamlin was left with
four stout sons and a pretty daughter.
Some few days after the events recorded in the last chapter, Joyce
Hamlin was sitting at breakfast with her father. Hamlin, black-a-vized,
with pale, clear skin, big but gaunt, gobbled up his food with that
indifference to it so common to men of his character. Joyce ministered
to him faithfully. Since his wife’s death, Hamlin had become even more
absorbed in his work, and talked of little else. Joyce served as
housekeeper and curate. When he rose and filled his pipe she said
cheerfully:
“Any particular orders, daddy?”
“You might see Bonsor about those repairs in the chancel. We shall have
the roof falling in before we know where we are.”
“Mr. Bonsor has referred the matter to the Squire.”
“Perhaps a word to old Fishpingle would expedite things.”
“If I see him, I’ll mention it.”
“Or, better still, attack Lady Pomfret.”
Joyce laughed.
“Same thing, daddy.”
“Eh?”
“Lady Pomfret manipulates the Squire through Fishpingle.”
Hamlin saw no humour in this. Strategy exasperated him. He practiced
direct methods, frontal attack, with the accompanying heavy artillery of
argument.
“Letters late, as usual,” he said testily. “Postman chattering at the
hall when he ought to be half way through the village. How long, O Lord,
how long?”
He broke out into sharp criticism and condemnation of the old order,
stigmatised as selfish, domineering, and negligent. Joyce listened
deferentially. It was a real grief to her that parson and squire pulled
against each other, because she saw clearly how much might have been
achieved had they pulled together. Anyway, the Pomfrets had been
charming to her and her brothers.
A bouncing parlourmaid entered with the belated letters and the
_Westminster Gazetter_, which arrived by post, some three hours ahead of
the daily papers—another Hamlin grievance. Hamlin took the letters from
the servant, who went out. One letter, with a Rawal-Pindi postmark upon
the envelope, was addressed to Joyce. Her father said carelessly:
“Who is your Indian correspondent?”
Joyce answered as carelessly:
“Lionel Pomfret.”
Hamlin opened his _Westminster_ and became absorbed in a leading
article. Joyce opened her letter, read it, and re-read it. She sat in
her late mother’s place at the head of the table. Hamlin was standing
near the window. She started slightly when she heard his voice.
“What does young Pomfret say for himself?”
“He is coming home. Oh, dear!”
Hamlin raised his dark brows. Joyce explained, less calmly:
“He begged me not to mention it.”
“How absurd! How could his coming home concern anybody except himself
and his people? Obviously a Pomfret, saturated with a sense of his own
importance.”
Joyce had plenty of spirit. She retorted pleasantly but incisively:
“You are mistaken, daddy, it might be better for Lionel if he had a
greater sense of his own importance. Unless he has changed very much, he
is altogether too modest and unassuming.”
“Then why this ridiculous mystery about his comings and goings?”
“Because, I fancy, he may have told me first.”
Her father nodded and left the dining-room. Alone in his small study he
whistled softly to himself. He was no fool, and assuredly he was no
snob. It had never occurred to him that Lionel Pomfret had more than a
brotherly interest in his girl. Before he went to India, the pair had
played tennis together, but what of that? Lionel had been far more
intimate with Joyce’s brothers.
Why should he write to her first?
Why shouldn’t he?
But Joyce had blushed a little as he left the dining-room. He attempted
for the first time to envisage her as a wife, a mother. Everything that
was hard in the parson softened as he beheld his daughter with a child
in her arms, mistress in her own house, independent of him altogether.
Upon second thoughts, he decided finally that he was leaping to
unwarrantable conclusions. She would have read a love-letter alone in
her room. And she was incapable of deceit.
Still, her blush worried him, and the artless avowal that Lionel had
written to her first. Yes, yes; something might come of this. A great
joy, perhaps a great sorrow. One conviction troubled him. Sir Geoffrey
would make himself intolerably unpleasant.
Meanwhile, Joyce’s blush lingered upon her cheeks. Her father’s hasty
exit disturbed her. She was quite aware of what she had done, of the
thoughts which her indiscreet words must have provoked. She wondered if
she could allay such thoughts by showing him the letter. It was a jolly
letter, a sincere reflection of the writer, so that it seemed to be the
spoken rather than the written word. It might have been dashed off by
one subaltern to another. Joyce had half a dozen such epistles upstairs.
It may be added here that no love passages, in the literal sense, had
taken place between these two correspondents.
But—she had blushed.
And she was the first to be told that he was coming home.
Joyce put away the letter with the others, and set forth on her common
round. Such as it was, it sufficed her. She held her head high, and
little of interest escaped her brown eyes. Town girls would have pitied
her. She pitied them. Not to know the names of birds and flowers and
butterflies, to be detached from interest in humbler neighbours, to be
denied the privilege of small ministrations, must surely take from life
much of the joy in living. Her sense of the present, so vivid and acute,
her happy ignorance of life outside her tiny circle, prevented her from
traffics, voyages and discoveries into the future.
Beside the river, she dawdled a little, having marked down several trout
which might, later on, be captured by a Green Jacket. She hoped that
Lionel would not miss the big May-fly rise in June. If he left India at
once he would arrive in the nick of time. She recalled his tremendous
triumph beneath the bridge, a thirteen pounder caught with a lump of raw
beef. _The Field_ had a paragraph about it. He was a boy of sixteen at
the time, and she a fat child of ten. She had scampered at his bidding
to the Pomfret Arms to get a landing net.
Halfway down the village she met Bonsor, who tried to escape from her.
He “bobbed”—the Squire’s descriptive word—when she mentioned the
chancel. And he evaded searching questions concerning the thatching of
certain cottages. Joyce inquired politely after the Squire, and learned
that he was furious because a local sanitary inspector had condemned
some pigsties. Bonsor speculated vaguely as to the future of a world
where such interference was possible, and then went his solitary way,
grumbling and growling. Joyce wondered why the Squire employed Bonsor.
Her father scrapped him as hopelessly out of touch with modern
conditions. But Bonsor, although a Hampshire man, had married in Nether
Applewhite. He had become, accordingly, one of Sir Geoffrey’s people.
The Squire would never scrap him.
By noon, she had reached the Hall. As she approached the front door she
saw Lady Pomfret busily engaged on the lawn clipping obtruding twigs
from a topiary group of hen and chickens cunningly fashioned out of box.
Her delight and satisfaction in such tiny accessories to a great place
appealed deeply to Joyce, constrained, as she was, to find her pleasure
in similar insignificant things. Lady Pomfret kissed her, and at touch
of her lips the girl guessed that the great news had reached the mother.
“Lionel is coming home,” said Lady Pomfret. “I believe, my dear, that I
am the happiest woman in England.”
To Joyce’s surprise she was kissed again.
“How splendid,” said Joyce.
Lady Pomfret glanced at her keenly, but no blush stole into Joyce’s
cheeks.
“You must stay to luncheon, child. At this moment, Fishpingle, I
believe, is decanting a bottle of our ‘Yellow Seal’ port, and the Squire
is assisting him. We were a little put out this morning about some
condemned pigsties, but we have forgotten that. And, by the way, have
you walked up here to see a lonely old woman, or is your
visit—parochial?”
“Both,” said Joyce.
“Ah! Well, under the special circumstances, shall we decide to
side-track—I learnt that word from dear Lionel—the parochial part. If
you like you can tell me.”
“Father wanted so much to know about the chancel repairs. He believes
that the roof may fall in.”
The Pomfret family pew happened to be in the chancel, another bone of
contention between parson and squire. Lady Pomfret’s kind eyes perceived
that Joyce was ill at ease, unhappy at mentioning one of many things
left undone. She tapped her cheek.
“How nice of your father to be thinking of me. He, brave man, would
stand erect if the heavens fell. Now, I promise you that the roof shall
be put in order.”
Joyce thanked her, much relieved. Lady Pomfret continued gaily:
“Fortified by you, I feel encouraged to spy upon the Squire. Walk with
me to Fishpingle’s room. I will bet you a pair of gloves that we shall
find those two wicked men drinking port as well as decanting it.”
“Before luncheon?”
“And when I think what I went through at Harrogate last year!”
They strolled along so leisurely that we will take the liberty of
preceding them.
The information that pigsties in his village had been condemned by some
Jack in-Office had reached the Squire overnight. And the vials of his
wrath had been poured upon Bonsor before breakfast. At breakfast Sir
Geoffrey heard from his son. Straightway woes and tribulations melted
like snowflakes in front of a roaring fire. The boy affirmed that he was
hard as nails, and ready for the time of his life. He should have it, b’
Jove! His leave would last over the cubbing and possibly the opening
meet in November. And the buck-hounds would be hunting in August. Why
had that damned mare lamed herself? Lionel was just the weight for her.
But the boy should be mounted if his father went afoot. Would it be a
decent fishing season? Of course they must entertain, fill the old house
with the right sort, do the thing well. Girls, too, the pick of the
county, with a sparkler or two from Mayfair?
Thus the Squire, giving tongue to a breast-high scent.
Lady Pomfret smiled and nodded.
From his wife, the Squire hurried to Fishpingle. All that he had said to
his wife he repeated, with additions, to his dear old Ben. And then,
together, they went “down cellar.”
The cellars at Pomfret Court were holy ground, entered taper in hand, a
sanctuary, where none save the elect might wander. The Squire believed,
of course, in laying down wine. And, oddly enough, what the unthinking
might have indicted as extravagance and superfluity had turned out a
sound investment. The Squire had a palate, and he bought his wine from
first-rate people. He boasted that his port and champagne cost him
nothing. He laid down double the quantity he needed and sold half when
the wine matured. He had been not so successful with claret.
The main feature of the Pomfret cellars was a stone chamber in the form
of a pentagon, from which branched five passages lined with bins. The
chamber and passages, either by design or happy chance, registered the
right temperature all the year round. In Sir Guy’s day—in his hot
youth—orgies had taken place in this pentagonal chamber. A round table,
glittering with plate and glass, was laid for four choice spirits.
Acolytes brought bottle after bottle from the adjoining bins. Upon one
of these occasions, so the legend ran, four men consumed twelve magnums
of Château Lafite! Sir Guy was the friend of the First Gentleman in
Europe.
Solemn as this great occasion was, the Spirit of Comedy illumined it.
Charles, the second footman, carrying two winebaskets, was in
attendance. Fishpingle, need it be said, would have perished at the
stake rather than entrust one bottle of the precious “Yellow Seal,”
Cockburn’s 1868 vintage, to such a hobbledehoy. The wine-cupboard
upstairs, which held the wine in everyday use, needed replenishing.
Hence the presence of Charles, trembling with excitement at the
privilege vouchsafed him. To fill his baskets and despatch their carrier
was Fishpingle’s first and easiest task. Then, in silence, Squire and
butler approached the sacred bin. At this moment such a crash as is
rarely heard except in farce or pantomime rang through the vaulted
chambers. Fishpingle spoke first to his startled master.
“Charles has fallen from the top of the stairway to the bottom.”
Sir Geoffrey could be trusted to show his quality in such emergencies.
He knew that every bottle of wine was smashed, and the wine was good
wine. He said suavely:
“I hope, Ben, that the boy has not hurt himself.”
Fishpingle was not at his best. He said almost rancorously:
“I hope, Sir Geoffrey, that he has broken his neck, but I’ll go and
inquire.”
He returned with the information that Charles had pitched on his head,
and therefore none the worse for his misadventure.
Two bottles of the “Yellow Seal” were taken to Fishpingle’s room. Sir
Geoffrey led the way with one, Fishpingle followed with t’other. Alfred
brought old Waterford glass decanters from the pantry.
The rites began. After carefully drawing the corks, Fishpingle inserted
into the necks of the bottles two fids of cotton-wool soaked in alcohol.
The alcohol—according to Fishpingle—destroyed any fungus growth
between the neck of the bottle and the cork. A small quantity of wine
was then poured into a glass, and solemnly smelt by each man in turn.
They smiled ecstatically. Two fresh glasses were filled to the brim, and
held up to the light.
“Beautiful,” murmured the Squire.
“Brilliant,” added Fishpingle.
“Master Lionel, God bless him!” said the Squire.
Fishpingle’s voice quavered, as he repeated the toast.
“Master Lionel, God bless him!”
They sipped the wine, winking at each other.
“What a breed, Ben!”
“What vinosity, Sir Geoffrey!” He looked at the nectar with a melancholy
smile, as he continued: “There was a time, Sir Geoffrey, when a
gentleman drank a decanter of this after dinner. And now, one bottle
amongst four men.”
“Not if I’m of that party,” replied the Squire briskly. “Sit ye down,
Ben, sit ye down. We’ll have a second glass presently and another
toast.”
They sat down at the Cromwellian table, with the decanter between them.
A full week had elapsed since Fishpingle’s confidential talk with Lady
Pomfret, and, so far, the Squire had not spoken a word about Alfred and
Prudence. Probably—so Fishpingle reflected—her ladyship had assured
Sir Geoffrey that it was wiser to leave the young people alone. Upon the
other and more important matter of selling the Reynolds Fishpingle had
kept silence, biding the right opportunity. At this moment he wondered
whether it was about to present itself.
Sir Geoffrey harked back to his son.
“He has six months’ leave, Ben.”
“Good. Master Lionel will be back in India, by December.”
Sir Geoffrey did not misunderstand this.
“Pooh, pooh! He’s grown into a strong man.”
“From the bottom of my heart I hope so.”
Sir Geoffrey sipped his wine, glancing at Fishpingle out of the corner
of his eye. He was growing ripe for confidences. He began blusterously:
“Damn you, Ben, you’ve given me a nasty taste in the mouth. Master
Lionel will make old bones. I feel that in _my_ bones. Enough of that.
We must give him the welcome he deserves, but I could wish, for his
sake, that we had more shots in the locker—what?”
Fishpingle inclined his head. The opportunity had come. But he waited
for the Squire to plunge deeper into his difficulties.
“‘The little more, and—and——’”
Fishpingle completed the quotation.
“‘And how much it is; And the little less, and what miles away!’”
“Yes, yes—what a memory you’ve got, Ben.
“I forget these confounded jingles. Where were we? You’ve put me off
with your rhymes.”
“The empty locker,” suggested Fishpingle, sipping his wine.
“Just so. A very few hundreds added to my shrinking income would make
such an immense difference to this dear lad’s home-coming.”
Fishpingle picked his way warily.
“The income, for instance, from twenty thousand pounds.”
“Tchah! Why do you jaw about specific sums? Twenty thousand pounds! Is
such a sum as that likely to drop from heaven on me! Talk practical
politics, you old ass. Can we scrape up a few tenners and fivers?”
“You can put your hand on twenty thousand pounds, Sir Geoffrey.”
Sir Geoffrey lay back in his chair, staring at his butler.
“Are you going dotty, Ben?”
“That particular sum hangs in the dining-room.” He leant forward,
meeting the Squire’s eyes. For a moment the Squire failed to catch his
meaning. When that meaning percolated to his marrow, he swore
prodigiously, as our Army, long ago, was said to have sworn in Flanders.
His glance become congested. With a gulp, he tossed off his wine.
“There!” he spluttered, “you’ve made me choke over the best wine in the
world. Sell the Sir Joshua, which, by the way, isn’t mine to sell? Sell
the finest picture in the house? Dammy, you are mad. What d’ye mean,
hay?” He glared fiercely at the one man living whom he could have sworn
to be incapable of making such an amazing suggestion.
Fishpingle paid no attention to his ebullition of indignation.
“Heirlooms, very valuable heirlooms, can be sold, Sir Geoffrey, under
certain conditions.”
The Squire exploded again.
“This is the limit. You’ve thought of this—you—_you_! I supposed, dash
it! that you were drawing a bow at a venture, firing into the ‘brown.’
Not a bit of it! You really mean it.” Fishpingle bowed. “It’s a
deliberate suggestion. Why not put a halter about my lady, and sell her
at auction in Salisbury market-place? Ha—ha! Why not start an old
curiosity shop with the family plate and furniture? We should do a
roarin’ trade. However, there it is. You’re not a Pomfret. We might sell
some land, hay?”
“Yes. That outlying strip—for building purposes.”
“My God! The man _is_ dotty.”
His old master looked so genuinely concerned and distressed that
Fishpingle melted. His voice quavered; he held out his hands
entreatingly.
“Sir Geoffrey, I know how you feel. We were boys together. I am, I hope,
part of the family, and as—as proud of it as you are. But this—this
sacrifice would put things right for you—and Master Lionel.”
“Much you know about him,” the Squire growled out, “if you think he
would be a party to such a—a violation, yes, violation, of all our
traditions. Not another word!” He raised his hand peremptorily. “I shall
overlook this outrageous suggestion, Ben, because you mean well—you
mean well. I lost my temper, I admit it, because I thought you knew me,
through and through, and shared my feelings about this property and what
goes with it, which, mark you, is a sacred trust for which—a—I deem
myself _a_ccountable. Finish your wine, man!” Fishpingle drained his
glass. “Now”—the Squire’s voice rang out cheerily—“we will forget all
this. I’ve another toast. Fill your glass and mine. We’ll drink it
standing.”
Fishpingle obeyed his instructions. The two men stood up. Sir Geoffrey
laughed, as he held up his glass.
“The toast, Ben, is worthy of the wine. I give you: Master Lionel’s
wife!”
Fishpingle nearly dropped his glass.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Is Master Lionel married?”
The Squire chuckled.
“Had you there, Ben. You rose like a fat trout at a May-fly. I give the
toast again: Master Lionel’s future wife!”
“He’s found her?”
“Not yet, but I think I have. Drink, man, drink.”
Fishpingle repeated the words of the toast. “Master Lionel’s future
wife.”
The Squire added firmly:
“May God bless her and her children!”
“May God bless her and her children!”
The toast was drunk, and the men sat down again. The Squire chuckled as
he went on sipping his port. His face radiated good humour and happy
expectations. He lowered his voice and his glass.
“Now, Ben, I am going to tell you something. I met the other day a most
charming young lady, a dasher, sir, a dasher, clean bred, in the Stud
Book, best stock in the kingdom, pretty, intelligent, and an heiress.
Better still, she has no big place of her own.”
“Might I ask the name Sir Geoffrey?”
“Lady Margot Maltravers, the late Lord Beaumanoir’s only child.”
“An only child?” Fishpingle repeated the words reflectively.
“Why do you sit there lookin’ like an owl in an ivy bush? By the luck of
things, Lady Margot is an only child. What of it? What of it?”
“Nothing. Master Lionel is an only child.”
“Don’t rub that in! Why did Providence send my parson four sons? I ask
such questions, but, b’ Jove, I can’t answer them. Can you?”
It will never be known whether Fishpingle could have answered the
Squire’s question, because, at this moment, Lady Pomfret floated into
the room, followed by Joyce Hamlin. The two men rose. Instantly the
Squire became the gentleman of the old school. He greeted Joyce as if
she were a duchess. He smiled charmingly at his wife. Lady Pomfret
raised her hand and pointed whimsically at the decanters. Then she
looked at Ben reproachfully.
“Oh, Ben, I thought you knew better than to allow Sir Geoffrey to drink
port before luncheon. And when I remember what I went through at
Harrogate——!”
“I went through it, not you, my dear Mary.”
He took a lovely rose from his buttonhole and presented it to his wife
as a propitiatory offering. She accepted it, shaking her head and
smiling.
“You will go there alone, Geoffrey, next time.”
“A glass of port would do you good, Mary.”
She declined with thanks. Sir Geoffrey turned to Joyce.
“Well, Joyce, my dear, you look blooming this morning. What a colour! No
air like our air. And, of course, you have heard our news,
which—a—justifies, ha! a glass of port before luncheon.”
Lady Pomfret noted what was left in the decanter.
“Our news justified, perhaps, one glass, Geoffrey, not two.”
“Tut, tut! Well, Joyce, I’ll wager that my lady surprised you, hay?”
Joyce hesitated and was lost. A town girl might have dissembled, but
George Hamlin’s daughter had inherited her father’s uncompromising code.
Nevertheless, she replied with self-possession.
“Not surprised exactly, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Bless my soul! Why not—why not?”
“You see I had a letter from Lionel by the same post.”
Obviously, the Squire was taken aback, Lady Pomfret raised her delicate
brows. Joyce continued hastily:
“He does write a jolly letter, so like himself, so full of fun.”
“Um! Quite—quite.”
Lady Pomfret said placidly:
“Dear Joyce is staying to luncheon. We are going into the garden. Do you
wish to come with us, Geoffrey?”
“Join you presently,” replied the Squire. “Ben and I are talking over a
little business—ways and means, ways and means, and more ways than
means, worse luck!”
The ladies withdrew. Sir Geoffrey moved to the fireplace, standing in
front of it, facing Fishpingle and frowning.
“Ben?”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“I’m a bit worried. You know, none better, that I’ve a nose.” He stroked
that well-formed feature as he spoke. “So have you. It’s a devilish odd
thing, but your nose—after pokin’ itself into my affairs for a thousand
years—has shaped itself after my pattern.”
“I dare say, Sir Geoffrey. It’s a good pattern.”
“You heard that young lady just now, and you must have been surprised,
as I was, although you stood like a graven image. She had a letter from
Master Lionel this morning. Now, why does he write to her? As between
man and man, as between stout old friends, what d’ye make of it—hay?”
Fishpingle was not prepared to say what he made of it. Knowing his
master, he temporised.
“Why shouldn’t Master Lionel write to her?”
“Tchah! The boy doesn’t write too often to me. I don’t like this, Ben, I
tell you I don’t like it.”
“Miss Hamlin is a very sweet young lady.”
“Daughter of a Rad. Never knew that when I gave him the livin’. And who
are the Hamlins, I ask you, spelt with an ‘i’?”
“Mrs. Hamlin was a sweet lady, too.”
“Sugary adjectives. You are damnably sentimental, Ben, and,
and—a—saccharine. Good word that! Where was I? Your confounded
interruptions always put me out of my stride. Yes, yes, I’m not a snob
but Mrs. Hamlin, if my memory serves me, was the daughter of an
auctioneer. The girl is hairy at the heel, b’ Jove.”
“She isn’t.”
“You have the impudence to contradict me?”
“I thought we were speaking as man to man, as friends.”
“So we are, so we are. But it was a slap in the face all the same. And,
damn it, sir, any pretty girl can twist you round her finger. Keep your
temper, Ben! Between you all my morning has been wrecked. I shall go and
hearten myself up with a squint at the new litter of pigs—fifteen
little darlings. That old sow does her duty, b’ Jove!”
He clapped his hat upon his head and strode to the door. There he stood
still for a moment, pulling himself together. His voice had quite
recovered its geniality as he said in parting:
“With your hasty temper, old friend, you oughtn’t to touch port.”
Fishpingle heard his voice once more in the courtyard, Sir Geoffrey was
speaking to his retriever.
“Good dog! Fine handsome doggie! Best dog in England, what? Come and
look at the piggy-wiggies with master.”
Fishpingle crossed to the bookcase, and took out a well-used Peerage.
Then he put on his spectacles. He sat down at the table and opened the
ponderous tome. His fingers turned a few pages. He found “Beaumanoir”
and read on.
* * * * *