Fishpingle sat down to his desk and busied himself with some papers. He thought it likely that Prudence might return, but she didn’t. The butler lit a pipe, rose from his chair, and crossed to the fireplace. Upon the mantel-shelf, framed alike in handsome leather frames, stood three photographs—Sir Geoffrey, in hunting kit, which became him admirably, Lady Pomfret, and Lionel Pomfret in the uniform of the Rifle Brigade. Fishpingle gazed intently at the portrait of his mistress. It happened to be an admirable likeness, recently taken. Fishpingle’s face softened, as he murmured something to himself. Perhaps he was thinking that here indeed was that rare bird—a lady of quality, the porcelain clay of human kind. The gracious curves of face and person, the kind, thoughtful eyes, heavily lidded, the sweet mouth, the delicately cut nose—all these attributes indicated race. One glance at such a portrait would inform any observer that Sir Geoffrey had been fortunate in his choice of a wife. And the same observer might have hazarded the conjecture that the lady was well content with her husband and life. Obviously, too, that life had been sheltered, lavender-scented, fragrant with all odours of woods and fields, untainted by what is offensive and cruel and urban. “Bless her!” ejaculated Fishpingle. He turned to the portrait of her son, a smiling stripling, who had inherited the delicate features of his mother, and, apparently, none of his father’s rugged health and massive physique. Fishpingle frowned a little. But he smiled again when he glanced at the Squire’s bluff, jolly face. Meanwhile his pipe had gone out. He relit it, walked to the door, called for Alfred, at work in the pantry, and then sat down in the big armchair. Alfred’s voice was heard humming a tune. He stopped humming as he came in. “Sit down,” said Fishpingle. Alfred, rather surprised, perched himself upon the edge of a chair. Fishpingle puffed at his pipe. After a moment or two, he removed it from his lips, saying abruptly: “So you want to marry Prudence?” Alfred betrayed astonishment. “The lil’ besom told ’ee?” Fishpingle shook his head. “How did ’ee find out?” “Never mind that! The powers of observation, my lad, so singularly lacking in you, are sharpened to a finer edge in me.” In dealing with his subordinates, Fishpingle’s copious vocabulary and choice of English never failed to astonish and confound. It was known, of course, that he had been educated above his station because his mother had been the favourite maid of Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, and later he had served as valet to his present master. But even these well-established facts were inadequate to the bucolic intelligence. A spice of mystery remained. Fishpingle ended on a sharper note: “You want her?” Alfred leant forward, speaking very emphatically: “Aye—that I do. She be the sweetest lil’ maid in Wiltsheer, she be.” “Um! And Prudence wants you, hey?”