Fishpingle never looked at her without reflecting that no artist could possibly do her justice. Others, but no better judges, shared this conviction. A delicate bisque figure, moulded by Spengler, would lose its charm if painted. Lady Pomfret suggested the finest bisque, and yet colour radiated from her, those soft tints which seem to defy reproduction. She was past fifty, matronly in person, but youth remained, an inalienable possession. The consciousness that she was beloved may have kept ardent this dancing flame, for love is the supreme beauty doctor. To this great gift some fairy godmother had added a lively sense of humour constantly exercised by the wife of Sir Geoffrey. And, in every way, she was his happy complement. He believed, honest fellow, that he ruled his wife. Fishpingle knew that he became as wax beneath her slender, pliable fingers. Long ago, she had accepted his disabilities as part and parcel of the man she loved. His quick temper, his prejudices and predilections growing stronger with advancing years, his too hasty conclusions and judgments endeared the Squire to her. And she knew that he adored her, had remained the gallant lover of her girlhood, prodigal in attentions which delight women. Invariably he saw her to her carriage; he rose when she entered a room; he brought her flowers and such simple oblations; he paid her compliments. He exacted from others the respect which he rendered so spontaneously to her. Lady Pomfret approached Fishpingle and said confidentially: “The Squire is upset this morning.” Fishpingle, slyly aware that this was the thin edge of the wedge, and that Sir Geoffrey had attempted to enlist his wife upon his side and against the lovers, assigned to the Squire’s discomposure what he knew to be the wrong reason. “I told him the mare was not up to his weight.” “That distressed him; it wasn’t that.” “Might have been the sheep, my lady.” “It might have been, but it wasn’t. I think, Ben, that you are well aware of the real reason. Now, why have you made this match?” Fishpingle made a gesture of repudiation. Lady Pomfret laughed. “I can guess that Nature was the matchmaker, not you. It is unfortunate that they are cousins.” “Why so, my lady? There is no danger in such matches, where the strain on both sides is clean and sound. That is Sir Geoffrey’s own view.” Lady Pomfret held up a protesting finger. “My dear Ben, I cannot talk eugenics with you, because I should be confounded by your superior knowledge. What I want to ask you is this: are the young people deeply attached to each other, or is it a mere passing flirtation?” He answered her positively. “They are deeply attached, my lady. I can assure you that it is no passing fancy, but the real thing.” “Does an old crusty bachelor flatter himself that he knows the real thing?” “He does, my lady.”