Lady Pomfret laughed gaily. The freedom and familiarity of her intercourse with this faithful servant were the greater because she knew that he was incapable of abusing his privileges. “Ben,” she continued, “I am quite sure that your fighting instincts have been aroused. Don’t shake your head! I know you, and you know me. The Squire is thinking of sending Alfred away, but I ventured to point out to him that he was a most excellent servant, who understood our ways, and that poor Charles, his godson”—she chuckled—“was hardly ready for promotion. That gave him pause. Now I suggest to you the propriety of marking time. Youth can wait, and so can Age. This tempest in our teapot will blow over. And— strictly between ourselves—we must give undivided attention to a match which more seriously concerns the fortunes of our family.” Fishpingle became alert instantly. “Master Lionel is coming home,” he exclaimed. “This is great news, my lady, wonderful news.” “We don’t know for certain, Ben. It is probable. And then——!” “And then?” She recovered her sprightliness, which had vanished at mention of her son. He was with his regiment in India. He had exchanged from an English battalion because his lungs were none too strong. The dreadful word was never spoken, but Fishpingle knew that a slight but unmistakable tendency to consumption had manifested itself. There was reason to believe that the young fellow had grown more robust in the Punjab. But the taint, the predisposition, had been inherited from his mother’s family, the Belwethers. Lady Pomfret’s eyes twinkled. “He has not been allured by any girl in India. I have his positive assurance on that.” Fishpingle made no reply. He was wondering whether his mistress could assign a reason for this indifference, a reason divined rather than known to himself. From the guileless expression of her face, he could draw no inference save this: that she was less guileless, where her own flesh and blood might be concerned, than she appeared. He waited patiently for further enlightenment. He perceived, moreover, that Lady Pomfret was in a rarely expansive mood. “If we could pick and choose for him!” “Ah!” “Money is sadly needed, Ben.” Each sighed, thinking of necessary things left undone—sterile acres that cried aloud for fertilisers; farm-buildings falling into disrepair; grumbling tenants; the long, dreary catalogue of “wants” upon an impoverished estate. “You have great influence with the Squire, Ben.” She spoke with significance. Fishpingle smiled. The dear lady had sought him with a definite object in view, which she would reveal after her own fashion. In this case, it was revealed sooner than she had intended, for she “gave herself away” by allowing her eyes to linger upon the finest picture in the dining-room, a magnificent Sir Joshua, a full-length portrait of a Pomfret beauty. At once Fishpingle stiffened and became impassive. “You don’t approve?”