Margot, in her sprightliest tone, added incisively: “Yes; and we’ve nipped in to fight under Cupid’s banner.” She advanced to the charge gaily. “Now, you must listen to—me.” But Sir Geoffrey was proof against alluring wiles. “Must I?” he said stiffly. “Why, of course, you must. Dear Lady Pomfret was dragged here by me. Frown at me, not at her. I plead for youth and beauty.” Just then, Youth and Beauty peered in through the open window. It was daring, audacious, a violation of inviolate tradition. But what will you? The hapless pair were beside themselves with misery and despair. Each gripped the other’s hand. Sir Geoffrey was hard put to it. Courtesy to a guest strained him to breaking-point. He bowed silently. Margot continued: “You are a true lover, Sir Geoffrey. You must know that love is free.” The Squire shied at the adjective. And this interruption had befogged him. “Free love,” he repeated. “God bless my soul! What next?” Lady Pomfret explained, deprecatingly. “Margot means, Geoffrey, that love is free to choose, to select——” Margot continued with animation: “Jill has the right to pick her Jack. If Jack is willing”—she paused and looked at Fishpingle—“and I understand that he is—” Alas! Poor Alfred! The question undid him. Had he remained silent, Margot might have triumphed. The Squire was melting beneath her fiery glances. He wanted to please her. He loved to confer a favour royally. But a voice from outside froze the very cockles of his heart. “Aye. That I be, my lady.” Such an interruption, at such a time, from such a source, filled the Squire with fury. He roared out: “Ben.” “Sir Geoffrey?” “Discharge that impertinent rascal at once.” Lady Pomfret spoke and looked her dismay. “Oh, Geoffrey! Who will wait at dinner? Poor Charles is so inefficient.” Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice. “Discharge him after dinner. Pay him his wages, and send him packing.” Another voice floated in through the window. “I go with Alfie, Sir Geoffrey.” The Squire, fulminating, strode to the window, Youth and Beauty had vanished. He came back, as Lady Pomfret observed disconsolately: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! We shall soon be left without servants.” Everybody was upset. For once Margot forgot her tact. She said with acerbity: “But really this is—feudal. It reeks of the Middle Ages.” Then, regaining her sprightliness, she smiled: “Sir Geoffrey, do come back to the twentieth century.” Lady Pomfret smiled faintly. “Please do, dear Geoffrey.” “Never! What unspeakable insolence!” “Poor things!” sighed Lady Pomfret. “They forgot us because we had driven them to think only of themselves.” Her charming voice, her kind, pleading eyes, her gracious gestures, were not wasted upon the Squire. Lionel, in a cheerful tone, said to the company generally: “Fishpingle was about to read us something of father’s, something eugenic and relevant.” Sir Geoffrey protested: “Um! Ha! In the presence of ladies——” He cleared his throat.