“How nice of your father to be thinking of me. He, brave man, would stand erect if the heavens fell. Now, I promise you that the roof shall be put in order.” Joyce thanked her, much relieved. Lady Pomfret continued gaily: “Fortified by you, I feel encouraged to spy upon the Squire. Walk with me to Fishpingle’s room. I will bet you a pair of gloves that we shall find those two wicked men drinking port as well as decanting it.” “Before luncheon?” “And when I think what I went through at Harrogate last year!” They strolled along so leisurely that we will take the liberty of preceding them. The information that pigsties in his village had been condemned by some Jack in-Office had reached the Squire overnight. And the vials of his wrath had been poured upon Bonsor before breakfast. At breakfast Sir Geoffrey heard from his son. Straightway woes and tribulations melted like snowflakes in front of a roaring fire. The boy affirmed that he was hard as nails, and ready for the time of his life. He should have it, b’ Jove! His leave would last over the cubbing and possibly the opening meet in November. And the buck-hounds would be hunting in August. Why had that damned mare lamed herself? Lionel was just the weight for her. But the boy should be mounted if his father went afoot. Would it be a decent fishing season? Of course they must entertain, fill the old house with the right sort, do the thing well. Girls, too, the pick of the county, with a sparkler or two from Mayfair? Thus the Squire, giving tongue to a breast-high scent. Lady Pomfret smiled and nodded. From his wife, the Squire hurried to Fishpingle. All that he had said to his wife he repeated, with additions, to his dear old Ben. And then, together, they went “down cellar.” The cellars at Pomfret Court were holy ground, entered taper in hand, a sanctuary, where none save the elect might wander. The Squire believed, of course, in laying down wine. And, oddly enough, what the unthinking might have indicted as extravagance and superfluity had turned out a sound investment. The Squire had a palate, and he bought his wine from first-rate people. He boasted that his port and champagne cost him nothing. He laid down double the quantity he needed and sold half when the wine matured. He had been not so successful with claret. The main feature of the Pomfret cellars was a stone chamber in the form of a pentagon, from which branched five passages lined with bins. The chamber and passages, either by design or happy chance, registered the right temperature all the year round. In Sir Guy’s day—in his hot youth—orgies had taken place in this pentagonal chamber. A round table, glittering with plate and glass, was laid for four choice spirits. Acolytes brought bottle after bottle from the adjoining bins. Upon one of these occasions, so the legend ran, four men consumed twelve magnums of Château Lafite! Sir Guy was the friend of the First Gentleman in Europe.