Earlier in the summer there had been one breathless, sickening moment of suspense, and disaster had seemed to loom. This was when his neighbour, Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe of Matchingham Hall, had basely lured away his pig man, the superbly gifted George Cyril Wellbeloved, by the promise of higher wages. For a while Lord Emsworth had feared lest the Empress, mourning for her old friend and valet, might refuse food and fall from her high standard of obesity. But his apprehensions had proved groundless. The Empress had taken to Pirbright, George Cyril's successor, from the first, and was tucking away her meals with all the old abandon. The Right triumphs in this world far more often than we realize. "What do you do to her?" asked Millicent curiously. "Read her bedtime stories?" Lord Emsworth pursed his lips. He had a reverent mind and disliked jesting on serious subjects. "Whatever I do, my dear, it seems to effect its purpose. She is in wonderful shape." "I didn't know she had a shape. She hadn't when I last saw her." This time Lord Emsworth smiled indulgently. Gibes at the Empress's rotundity had no sting for him. He did not desire for her that schoolgirl slimness which is so fashionable nowadays. "She has never fed more heartily," he said. "It is a treat to watch her." "I'm so glad. Mr. Carmody," said Millicent, stooping to tickle a spaniel which had wandered up to take pot luck, "told me he had never seen a finer animal in his life." "I like that young man," said Lord Emsworth emphatically. "He is sound on pigs. He has his head screwed on the right way." "Yes, he's an improvement on Baxter, isn't he?" "Baxter!" His lordship choked over his cup. "You didn't like Baxter much, did you, Uncle Clarence?" "Hadn't a peaceful moment while he was in the place. Dreadful feller! Always fussing. Always wanting me to _do_ things. Always coming round corners with his infernal spectacles gleaming and making me sign papers when I wanted to be out in the garden. Besides, he was off his head. Thank goodness I've seen the last of Baxter." "But have you?" "What do you mean?" "If you ask me," said Millicent, "Aunt Constance hasn't given up the idea of getting him back." Lord Emsworth started with such violence that his pince-nez fell off. She had touched on his favourite nightmare. Sometimes he would wake trembling in the night, fancying that his late secretary had returned to the castle. And though on these occasions he always dropped off to sleep again with a happy smile of relief, he had never ceased to be haunted by the fear that his sister Constance, in her infernal managing way, was scheming to restore the fellow to office. "Good God! Has she said anything to you?" "No. But I have a feeling. I know she doesn't like Mr. Carmody." Lord Emsworth exploded.