“I am prepared to be magnanimous. I must make allowance for poor Ben’s irritability and quick temper. I have no doubt whatever that he is thoroughly ashamed of himself. And well aware as I am of his shortcomings, I have never questioned his devotion to you. Will you see him?” “If you wish it, Geoffrey.” “I do wish it. You can tell him that I am prepared to accept an apology. I make this concession for your sake, my dear.” She smiled at him, with a lift of her delicate brows. “Oh, thank you, Geoffrey.” “Not at all. God knows that I’m perfectly content with bread and cheese and a glass of ale, but I have to think of you and Margot. It is most unfortunate that our servants should have chosen such a moment to defy me. As for Lionel, I cannot trust myself to speak of him to you.” Lady Pomfret attempted no defence of her son. And the thought of the approaching interview with Fishpingle was distressing her. What could she say to Ben? What would he say to her? Her attention was distracted, however, by the appearance of Margot, evidently clothed for the road, and looking more than ordinarily alert and sprightly. Somehow she gave the impression of speed, whenever she donned her motoring kit, of excess speed. Lady Pomfret, looking up at her, said to herself, “We could never have kept up with her.” She greeted her hosts gaily, as if nothing had happened. This is a great gift given to few. No young lady of her years could skate so gracefully and swiftly over the thinnest ice. “My Rolls-Royce will be round in five minutes.” “Bless my soul!” exclaimed the Squire. “Surely you will stay to luncheon?” “Dear Sir Geoffrey, how could I put you to the inconvenience of entertaining me at such a moment? My maid tells me that all your servants are on strike.” “All of ’em?” gasped the Squire. Lady Pomfret murmured soothingly: “Your maid, dear Margot, is mistaken.” “I hope so.” She continued briskly, having rehearsed what she spoke of afterwards as “my little song and dance.” To fly from any storm was instinctive, but her determination to trail clouds of glory remained distinctive. “Probably. But the strike is on. It may spread. It may be declared off. That depends altogether on——” “Them,” the Squire rapped out. “You,” she corrected him charmingly. “The situation, however, lamentable, is in your hands. Really—it is a tremendous opportunity. I see you, Sir Geoffrey, seizing that opportunity, hugging it to your heart.” The Squire stared at her. “You see that, do you? I see fog—pea-soup fog. Lift that fog, and I shall be your obliged servant.” She laughed joyously.