She sat down, folding her hands upon her lap. Her expression indicated resignation, feminine weakness. Fishpingle was not deceived. The battle was not over, but beginning. Her ladyship had cleared her decks for action. “I can’t quite follow you, my lady.” “You will in a moment,” her tone brightened. Outside, she could hear Sir Geoffrey rating a retriever. That meant freedom from interruption. In five minutes the faithful Ben would be enlightened. She asked him to sit down. He did so with a premonition of defeat. “Has it occurred to you, my dear old friend, that the simplest solution of our problem might be found if Lionel married money?” Fishpingle flushed a little. The delicate flattery of leaving out the formal pretext to her son’s son, the tacit assurance that she suspended for a moment the difficult relationship between mistress and man, produced its intended effect. “I have often thought of it, my lady.” “Then you will admit that Lionel is placed in a false position?” Fishpingle winced. She had pierced, at the first thrust, the joint in his armour. “He might be,” he admitted. “He is in it already. God forbid that direct pressure should be used. The Squire is incapable of that. Because we should not use such pressure, the dear fellow might apply it himself. And if—if, Ben, he happened to fall in love with a charming, penniless girl——” Her voice died away. Fishpingle tried to read her thoughts and failed helplessly. Did she suspect that there was such an attachment already? After a pause she went on: “That would be a great trial and disappointment to his father.” Fishpingle opened his mouth and closed it. “You know that, Ben, as well as I do. There are many nice girls with money. Sir Geoffrey, poor dear man, is picking and choosing half a dozen such, but our son can be trusted to make his own choice.” “Yes,” said Fishpingle. “If you had to choose, Ben, between the selling of that Reynolds and the building land _and_ Lionel’s future happiness would you hesitate a moment?” “Not a moment, my lady.” “I was quite sure of that.” She rose, smiling placidly. Fishpingle rose with her. Nothing more was to be said. The conqueror held out her hand. “You are a true friend, Ben, loyal and—discreet.” With that Parthian shot, she went her way. * * * * * CHAPTER III