This queerly contrasted pair, the reactionary squire and the twentieth-century maiden, met at a big Hampshire house, where the partridge driving is superlatively good. Sir Geoffrey happened to be a fine performer, a little slow with his second gun, but quick enough to shoot in the best company. To the humiliation of the younger men, Lady Margot accompanied the veteran, and highly recommended his performance and his retriever’s. He amused her more than the young men, because he was absolutely sincere. And she succumbed instantly to the gracious personality of Lady Pomfret, accepting with alacrity an invitation to visit Pomfret Court, openly chagrined when no early date was set. She arrived in May, driving her Rolls-Royce, and accompanied by a chauffeur and a French maid. Sir Geoffrey, as was his wont, received her at the front door. The warmth of the reception rather astonished her. But it was quite in keeping, so she reflected, with the hospitable air of the house, a fine specimen of late Elizabethan architecture. To luxury in its myriad phases she was accustomed; comfort, as the Pomfrets interpreted the word, might be more restful. She promised herself fresh and diverting experiences in studying types which she had supposed to be extinct. This first visit was an enormous success. She beheld, of course, half a dozen different photographs of the Rifleman, and asked many questions concerning him. “He is no popinjay,” affirmed Sir Geoffrey. “Do you call him clever?” she asked the proud father. “Clever! Now, my dear, what the doose d’ye mean by ‘clever’?” “Quite frankly, Sir Geoffrey, I ask for information.” “Am I clever?” demanded the Squire. “Oh no, dear Geoffrey,” said his wife, tranquilly. The three persons were at tea in what was known as the Long Saloon, a charming room with two great oriel windows, similar to those at Montacute, embellished by innumerable achievements, escutcheons setting forth in stained glass the armorial bearings of the families that had intermarried with the Pomfrets. The walls were panelled in oak palely golden with age. Against these walls stood cabinets of Queen Anne and the Georges filled with English porcelain. There were lovely bits of Chinese lacquer, many chintz-covered sofas and chairs, two well-worn Persian carpets, and tables of all sizes and shapes. Every article looked as if it had stood still for generations. Lady Margot said happily that here was exactly the right setting for her hosts. The room shone with the same soft lustre that gleamed from the silver of the tea equipage two centuries old. Sir Geoffrey laughed. “Are _you_ clever, Mary?” “Here and there, Geoffrey, where my own interests are vitally concerned.” Lady Margot stuck to her point. “Is your son interested in art and literature?” Her listeners failed to detect a slight accent of derision. “Um! He’s an outdoor man, as I am. I can tell you this. He is interested in persons. He is the most popular fellow in Nether-Applewhite.”