“Really? I look forward to making his acquaintance.” At this the Squire chuckled. He would have laughed aloud, had he realised that his guest was indeed more interested in his son than she was prepared to admit, even to herself. The photographs captivated her. She made certain that Lionel Pomfret was utterly different from the young men who frequented her own house. She recognised in him the _preux chevalier_. With such parents could he be anything else? Leaping to quite unjustifiable conclusions, she decided, also, that this only son must have taken from father and mother what was best in each. Perhaps, for the first time in her variegated life, she became romantic. Nobody, as yet, had whetted her imagination. If Sir Geoffrey had divined all this! Presently, when many of Prudence’s fancy cakes had been eaten, Sir Geoffrey led his guest to the farther window. “Do you see anything familiar?” he asked. “Of course. How exciting! Our coat. Have our families intermarried?” “In 1625, when Charles the First ascended his throne.” “I must look that up.” “We will do so together.” Upon the following Monday morning she whirled away, leaving a gap behind her. Sir Geoffrey waxed a thought too enthusiastic. Lady Pomfret admitted her intelligence and good-breeding. “Mary, you are lukewarm.” “I suspend judgment. What does Ben say?” “Ben—Ben? I haven’t asked Ben. I needn’t ask him. Quality is everything with the old fellow. He will bore me stiff raving about her. She was uncommonly civil to him. A witch, my dear, a witch.” “You burn her alive with this excess of praise.” Fishpingle, however, who went fishing with the Squire that same Monday afternoon, did not rave about Lady Margot Maltravers. The Squire did so for him, and believed that what he said had been said by his faithful henchman. He caught more trout than Fishpingle, and returned home in exuberant spirits. Whether by accident or design, Joyce Hamlin was not asked to meet the “dasher.” The problem of ways and means for an heir’s suitable entertainment was solved triumphantly by the Squire, without a hint from either my lady or old Ben. Sir Geoffrey went to town alone. He returned, next day, inflated with a sense of his own cleverness and craft. He had let the shooting! Fishpingle was visibly impressed and touched. In the memory of man the Pomfret shootings had been rigorously preserved by and for the Pomfret squires. The sacrifice almost matched that of Abraham. And—unlike the Patriarch—the Squire had measured what that sacrifice meant to his son—practically nothing. “Our partridges are never driven till early November, and by that time Lionel will be in the Red Sea. Well, well, I hope my old pals will keep my guns warm.” Lady Pomfret kissed him. He had brought her a trinket from Cartier’s, a tiny brooch as dainty as herself. As he was pinning it into a lace jabot, she asked anxiously: “Oh, Geoffrey, did you remember to order a new dress suit?”