Next day, after the shock of battle, Sir Geoffrey felt uncommonly sore and tired. Never had he made so wretched a breakfast! His wife, screened by a large silver urn, poured out his tea in placid silence. This silence was not the least of many flea-bites. After his interview with the Parson, she had asked no questions. The Squire was unable to determine whether this could be deemed sympathy or strategy. For his part, he had said nothing, being well aware that the Parson, in a sense, had carried off the honours of the encounter. This disagreeable impression—for it was no more—might be to his credit, but it in no way bridged the gulf between the two men. Rather the contrary. Nevertheless to repeat to Lady Pomfret the Parson’s arguments might provoke discussion of them. Accordingly, when the ladies retired to bed, the Squire went to his room, where he smoked at least three cigars before turning in. Margot discreetly did not appear at breakfast. The Squire marked ravages upon Lady Pomfret’s face, as he choked down his food. She looked pale; the lines about her mouth and eyes seemed to have deepened; her hands, as they poised themselves above cream-jug and sugar-basin, fluttered a little. He tried to read her mind and failed. But he never doubted her for an instant. She would stand shoulder to shoulder with him till the end. Presently she left the room. The Squire got up and examined her plate and cup. She had eaten nothing, and drunk half a cup of tea! The Squire swore to himself. He went to the library and sat down at his desk, littered with papers and accounts taken from Fishpingle’s room by the ex-butler and placed by him on the desk. The neat files, row upon row, seemed to stand at attention like soldiers on parade awaiting the word of command. The Squire gazed at them frowning helplessly. Presently Fishpingle would present himself and his books. What happened when a butler left a big establishment? There ought to be inspections of silver and wine, and the Lord knows what beside. All that, however, could be taken as done. He picked up a file of accounts. Under a rubber band was a neat slip of paper serving as an index of contents. Fishpingle must have sat up half the night getting these neat files into order. “Damn!” exclaimed the Squire. Charles, the second footman, now in supreme command, entered, but remained grinning sheepishly at the door. “Come in, you fool,” said his master testily. “Good Lord; haven’t you been taught how to enter a room properly?” “Yas, Sir Gaffrey.” He added deprecatingly: “I know that I be raw, Sir Gaffrey.” This mild answer had its effect. “True—true. We’re at sixes and sevens, Charles.” Much encouraged Charles grinned again. “Ah-h-h! Flambergasted we all be this marnin.” “Well, what is it?” “Mr. Bonsor, Sir Gaffrey.” “Tell him to wait. I can’t see him yet.” “Yas, Sir Gaffrey.” Charles withdrew, still grinning. The Squire muttered to himself: “Yas, Sir Gaffrey! What an oaf!”