CHAPTER XVIII Lady Pomfret met the Squire before he reached his desk and laid her hand upon his arm. That familiar touch was the one needful to reassure him. My lady had made Ben see himself as he was. He smiled at her complacently: “Well, Mary?” “Ben wishes to speak to you alone.” This information disconcerted the Squire, but only for a moment. Ben, of course, had his pride. Naturally he would hate “to climb down” in the presence of his beloved mistress. But that must be considered part of the penalty imposed by Authority. Without discipline, in a big establishment—where on earth were you? Nevertheless, he answered very pleasantly: “Alone, Mary? There is nothing that Ben can say to me which cannot be said in your presence. And I hope,” he inflated a little, “that what he _will_ say will be said handsomely and before you, my dear.” Lady Pomfret glanced at Fishpingle. He made no sign. With a little shrug of her shoulders and a tiny lift of the eyebrows, she returned to her sofa. The Squire stared fixedly at the books brought in by Charles. “What are these?” Fishpingle moved nearer to the desk. “My private books, Sir Geoffrey. The files of accounts and the ledger you have seen already. These are supplementary, memoranda connected with stockbreeding, copies of letters, information that will be of service to Mr. Bonsor. The cellar and plate books are with them, carefully checked. This is my book.” He indicated a thin red account-book. Sir Geoffrey sat down, saying curtly: “I am much obliged. I have no doubt whatever that everything is in perfect order. To prove that conviction, I shall not trouble to look at these accounts and memoranda.” “As you please, Sir Geoffrey.” Lady Pomfret observed lightly but meaningly: “Sir Geoffrey, Ben is well aware that for many years you have acted as his honorary land agent.” The Squire frowned. He was not, as yet, well aware of this fact. However, under the circumstances he allowed the remark, not a tactful one, to pass. Fishpingle said quietly: “Thank you, my lady.” Sir Geoffrey pushed aside the books, clearing his desk and his throat at the same moment. Then he looked at his wife. “I take it, my dear Mary, that you have done—ahem!—as I asked you.” Lady Pomfret displayed slight nervousness. Her voice, as she replied, was not quite under control. But Fishpingle, not the Squire, noticed this. And he saw, also, that her fingers interlaced upon her lap were trembling. “I have done my best, Geoffrey. I think that Ben does, perhaps, have a glimpse of himself as I see him.” She flashed a glance at Fishpingle. “Do you, Ben?” “Yes, my lady.” The Squire rubbed his hands, leaning forward. The adjustment of his strained relations with a faithful butler adumbrated the recognition of his authority by his son. Almost, he was beginning to enjoy himself.