Sir Geoffrey rose majestically. He approached his butler. He surveyed him from head to heel. Upon his red face amazement wrestled with incredulity. With an immense effort, he controlled himself, saying calmly: “You mean, Ben, that you—_you_ oppose my wishes?” “In this instance, yes.” Alfred entered with the cooling drinks. Sir Geoffrey gasped out: “I have never been so—so——” “Thirsty, Sir Geoffrey?” suggested Fishpingle, as Alfred presented the salver. The Squire seized a glass with a trembling hand, completed the sentence, “in all my life.” “Nor I,” said Lionel, taking the other glass. Alfred withdrew. Sir Geoffrey tossed off his drink, nearly choking. As he slammed the empty glass upon the table, he exploded. “You—traitor!” Lionel slammed down his empty glass. “_Traitors_, father; I’m with Fishpingle, if an honest opinion is called treachery.” “Good God! My own son against me.” But, quickly, he moderated his tone, saying testily: “There, there! ‘Traitor’ was too strong an expression. I withdraw it. But I stand firm on the other matter. I repeat: Prudence and Alfred are too near of kin.” Lionel answered respectfully: “You, sir, have proved Fishpingle’s case up to the hilt.” “Eh? What d’ye mean, boy?” “Fishpingle will read you an extract from an article written by you on this subject, won’t you, old chap?” “With pleasure, Master Lionel.” He crossed to his bookcase, opened a drawer below it, turned over some papers, and fished out a scrap-book. “Something I wrote. All right! I stand by my own words—always have done. No chopping and changing for me!” Fishpingle found the page and the clipping. He put on his spectacles. “Hurry up,” enjoined the Squire. “What an old dodderer!” Fishpingle began: “Under date April the first——” “Is this a stupid joke, Ben?” “That happens to be the date, Sir Geoffrey. The article was written by you some fifteen years ago.” “Um! Ancient history. I refuse to accept unqualified responsibility for what I wrote fifteen years ago.” Lionel laughed. He felt that the tension was relieved. “I say—play cricket, father!” “Cricket? How the doose, boy, can you remember what I wrote when you were a lad of ten?” “Simply because Fishpingle read that clipping to me about a week ago.” The Squire growled. “This looks like a damned conspiracy.” At this moment Lady Pomfret sailed into the room, followed by Margot. Prudence had fled, weeping to her kind mistress. Regardless of a visitor, the maid had told her piteous tale, entreating help, first aid which couldn’t wait. Lady Pomfret had hesitated, knowing her man. Then Margot had interposed. “L’union fait la force.” Let them seek the autocrat together. Let women’s wit and tact prevail! She ached for the encounter. Together they would triumph gloriously. Lady Pomfret yielded reluctantly to importunity. Prudence raced back to Alfred. Lady Pomfret smiled at her lord. “Dear Geoffrey, we have just seen poor little Prudence Rockley.”