Already he felt uncomfortably warm, so he got up and opened a window, staring out of it across the park. When he came back to his desk, he noticed a big ledger upon a chair. He took it up, dipped into it, frowned, and dropped it with a bang upon the carpet. This enormous tome was Fishpingle’s petty-cash book. The Squire seized a quill and a sheet of paper. The quill scratched and spattered ink. Sir Geoffrey hurled it over his shoulder and selected another. He began a list, headed: “Secretary—butler—first footman—stillroom maid——” He laid down his quill, beginning to mutter again, inarticulate growlings. Whose business was it to attend to these domestic duties? He must find that out at once. He rang the bell. After an exasperating delay Charles appeared. “Why the devil don’t you come when I ring, sir?” “I be single-handed, Sir Gaffery.” “Yes, yes, I had forgotten. My compliments to her ladyship and I wish to see her for a minute.” “Yas, Sir Gaffrey. Be you wanting her old ladyship or her young ladyship?” “My wife you idiot!” roared the Squire. “Yas, sir Gaffrey.” The Squire paced up and down the room till Lady Pomfret came in. Beads of perspiration stood upon his massive forehead. He wiped them away with an immense bandana. But he smiled pleasantly at his wife as her kind tones fell like dew upon his heated tissues of mind and body. “You want me, Geoffrey?” He met her in the middle of the room, took her hand, and kissed it. “Mary, my dear, I want you desperately. The whole house is upside down b’ Jove! And, by the way, that fellow Charles is a disgrace to our establishment, a clown, an idiot.” “He is your godson, Geoffrey.” She smiled faintly. “He isn’t—_impossible_!” “I am sure of it.” “We’ll see about that.” He placed her courteously in a chair, sat down at his desk, opened a drawer and took out a small notebook in which were entered his village godchildren’s names. “B’ Jove! you’re right, Mary. He is my godson. I shall deal faithfully with him.” Lady Pomfret sighed. “Please, for my sake, go easy with him. He may give notice, too. I should like to spare you further worry, Geoffrey, but the kitchen-maid and two under house-maids are leaving us.” “What? Why, Mary, why?” “Out of sympathy, I suppose, for Prudence and Charles. It has never happened to us before, dear, but these—how shall I put it—these sympathetic strikes are not uncommon, I fancy.” Sir Geoffrey’s eyes obtruded; so did his chin. “Strikes, Mary? Did you say—strikes? Good God!” “Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Mowland are very tearful. We must exercise the greatest forbearance.” The Squire roared out: “Let the whole ungrateful pack go to blazes. You and I, Mary, will end our days in a nice comfortable hotel.” “My dear Geoffrey——! Are there any nice comfortable hotels left?” The Squire answered mournfully: “Not one. Mary, I have never felt so sore, so disillusioned, so profoundly convinced that life under modern conditions is not worth living.”