He sat down at the Sheraton bureau, and took from a drawer a much battered tin box, which he opened with a small key attached to his watch chain. The box held some letters and a miniature. In his less robust moments, when any really pressing appeal happened to be made to his sentimental side, a side carefully hidden from Nether Applewhite, Fishpingle was in the habit of opening this box, and looking at the miniature. He might, if the necessity were really importunate, read a letter or two. He had picked up the miniature when a tap at the door was heard. “Come in.” Prudence appeared. Fishpingle was not deceived by her self-composed and almost valiant deportment. He knew that she had missed “elevenses” and had spent at least a quarter of an hour crying in her room, and as much time again in repairing the ravages wrought by tears. As he was expecting her, and didn’t wish her to know it, he expressed a mild surprise. “Is everybody as idle as I am in this house?” She perched herself upon his knee, put one arm round his neck, and kissed his forehead. “Dear Uncle Ben,” she cooed. “Cupboard love, my dear. I know why you are here. I know what you want—Alfred.” “What a man you be!” “Don’t you want him? Speak up!” She put her lips to his ear and whispered. “Yes, I do. There!” “And you came here to tell me this?” “N—no.” “Then why did you come?” “Because of what Sir Geoffrey said. What did he mean? What _did_ he mean?” Fishpingle felt her cheek rubbed softly against his. The little witch meant to abuse her powers. And her sweetness, the artlessness of her avowal, were irresistible. Indecision took to its heels. Then and there he registered a vow to fight on the lover’s side, to fight, if need be, to a finish. He said tentatively: “About eugenics?” She slipped from his knee, fetched a foot-stool, and sat down upon it, clasping his hand in hers. “Tell about eugannicks, Uncle Ben.” For the second time that morning he noticed that the maid was in sunlight, whereas he sat in shadow. And her voice, eager, youthful, vibrant with feeling, seemed to ring out of the sunlight, whereas his own grave inflections floated quietly out of the shadowy past. “It would come better from your mother, Prue.” “Mother be manglin’ to-day. ’Tis easier to talk to ’ee than her, so busy she be from marnin’ till night. An’ I brought my troubles to ’ee, Uncle Ben, when I was a lil’ maid. Squire said that a marriage ’atween cousins ’d be dis—_astrous_. If he were talkin’ eugannicks, why then I hate an’ despise eugannicks—yas, I do.” “He was talking eugenics. Sir Geoffrey is a great gentleman, Prue. There are not many left like him. He lives on his own land, he spends all his money amongst his own people.” Prudence said sharply: “Squire ain’t too much to spend, seeminly.” “True enough. He’s land poor. It’s been a struggle ever since I can remember. And I’ve been here all my life. And I know Squire better—better than he knows himself.”