“An only child?” Fishpingle repeated the words reflectively. “Why do you sit there lookin’ like an owl in an ivy bush? By the luck of things, Lady Margot is an only child. What of it? What of it?” “Nothing. Master Lionel is an only child.” “Don’t rub that in! Why did Providence send my parson four sons? I ask such questions, but, b’ Jove, I can’t answer them. Can you?” It will never be known whether Fishpingle could have answered the Squire’s question, because, at this moment, Lady Pomfret floated into the room, followed by Joyce Hamlin. The two men rose. Instantly the Squire became the gentleman of the old school. He greeted Joyce as if she were a duchess. He smiled charmingly at his wife. Lady Pomfret raised her hand and pointed whimsically at the decanters. Then she looked at Ben reproachfully. “Oh, Ben, I thought you knew better than to allow Sir Geoffrey to drink port before luncheon. And when I remember what I went through at Harrogate——!” “I went through it, not you, my dear Mary.” He took a lovely rose from his buttonhole and presented it to his wife as a propitiatory offering. She accepted it, shaking her head and smiling. “You will go there alone, Geoffrey, next time.” “A glass of port would do you good, Mary.” She declined with thanks. Sir Geoffrey turned to Joyce. “Well, Joyce, my dear, you look blooming this morning. What a colour! No air like our air. And, of course, you have heard our news, which—a—justifies, ha! a glass of port before luncheon.” Lady Pomfret noted what was left in the decanter. “Our news justified, perhaps, one glass, Geoffrey, not two.” “Tut, tut! Well, Joyce, I’ll wager that my lady surprised you, hay?” Joyce hesitated and was lost. A town girl might have dissembled, but George Hamlin’s daughter had inherited her father’s uncompromising code. Nevertheless, she replied with self-possession. “Not surprised exactly, Sir Geoffrey.” “Bless my soul! Why not—why not?” “You see I had a letter from Lionel by the same post.” Obviously, the Squire was taken aback, Lady Pomfret raised her delicate brows. Joyce continued hastily: “He does write a jolly letter, so like himself, so full of fun.” “Um! Quite—quite.” Lady Pomfret said placidly: “Dear Joyce is staying to luncheon. We are going into the garden. Do you wish to come with us, Geoffrey?” “Join you presently,” replied the Squire. “Ben and I are talking over a little business—ways and means, ways and means, and more ways than means, worse luck!” The ladies withdrew. Sir Geoffrey moved to the fireplace, standing in front of it, facing Fishpingle and frowning. “Ben?” “Sir Geoffrey?” “I’m a bit worried. You know, none better, that I’ve a nose.” He stroked that well-formed feature as he spoke. “So have you. It’s a devilish odd thing, but your nose—after pokin’ itself into my affairs for a thousand years—has shaped itself after my pattern.” “I dare say, Sir Geoffrey. It’s a good pattern.”