“‘The Queen was in the parlour,’” said Christopher John. “It doesn’t say how she was dressed, but I imagine she did herself just as well as she could. I don’t know about the pyjamas, and I’m sure her stockings weren’t in the same street as yours, but I’ve always sort of believed that the—the contents were. And that’s the point. One reads of queens and fine ladies and maidens and all, and then one day, if one’s lucky, one comes across you. And there’s the original of the lot.” Audrey lay back on the turf and stared at the trembling green and the blue beyond. “That’s very charming of you, but——” “It isn’t at all,” said John. “It’s the unvarnished truth. And if you want any further argument, always remember this. When you came to Sundial you went straight up to the throne. Well, once you’re there, pyjamas and such things don’t count. The Queen can do no wrong.” Miss de Lisle laughed. “Listen to the Queen-maker,” she said. “Well, be it so. I’m up on the throne of Sundial—Heaven knows why. The trouble is I’ve only a pasteboard crown.” “What do you mean?” said Christopher, lighting his pipe. “I’ve no power,” said Audrey. “At best, I’m only a doll.” “I should have said you were omnipotent. You’ve only to breathe to——” “Real power,” said Audrey. “I can’t put anything right. I can smile and say ‘Never mind,’ but that’s where I get off. Now, the Lord of the Manor’s got power. He’s a real king—worse luck.” “‘The Lord of the Manor’? Who’s been talking of him?” “My subjects, of course,” said Audrey, crossing her ankles. “They hate him like anything. But what can I do? I’ve only a pasteboard crown.” “Why do they hate him?” said John. “Because he’s a sweep,” said Audrey. “He doesn’t play the game. He shoves up the rents, he never does any repairs, he makes them pay for grazing on Mesne Holms, he stopped a funeral going by Witchery Drive, and worst of all, he never comes near the place. I know you’re his agent’s pupil, but that doesn’t alter the facts.” “I’ve only been here a month,” said Christopher John, “and the agent in question has left me to shift for myself. At the moment I think he’s——” “He’s with his master,” said Audrey, “trying to temper the wind. Everyone says _he’s_ all right. He does his best, but the Lord of the Manor’s a sweep. He won’t hear a word. Warthog’s sick and tired of doing his dirty work—says so openly.” Christopher frowned. “Perhaps, if he came to Sundial——” “But he won’t,” said Audrey, sitting up and smacking the turf with her palm. “Warthog’s implored him to come time and again. He says he believes it’s because he hasn’t the face.” Christopher sighed. “Well, well,” he said. “There’s nothing like a fool in his folly. Fancy owning Sundial, an’ letting it rip. . . . An’ a pew like a loose-box. . . . Still, it’s an ill wind. If he’s such a sweep, we’re better without the gent. Would you like to see the house—‘that Jack built’?” “The Manor House? Rather.” “I’m going to-morrow—officially, at ten o’ the clock.”