Upon the stone walls were some fine heads of fallow deer, and half a dozen cases of stuffed birds and fish. Fishpingle, it might be inferred, was something of an angler and naturalist. A glance at his bookcase revealed his interest in horse and hound. Beckford was there, and Daniel’s “Rural Sports,” and Izaac Walton. In the place of honour shone conspicuous a morocco-bound, richly-tooled, gilded volume—“Stemmata Pomfretiana.” This genealogical work had been compiled, regardless of expense, by Sir Geoffrey’s grandfather, who had wasted time and money in pursuit of other and less harmless interests. It was he indeed, who encumbered a fine estate with a large and crippling mortgage. Into Fishpingle’s room came Alfred Rockley, the first footman, carrying a handsome tankard in one hand and a “chammy” leather in the other. Alfred was a good-looking young fellow, racy of the Wiltshire soil, born and bred upon the Pomfret estates and quite willing to serve a master who lived upon those estates and did not own (or lease) a house in town. A reason for this contentment will appear immediately. Alfred placed the tankard, bottom uppermost upon the Cromwellian table, and stared at it intently with a slight frown upon his ordinarily pleasant countenance. Then he picked it up, rubbed it softly, and began to inspect himself in its shining surface. This agreeable task so engrossed him that he failed to notice the sly approach of a maid-servant, who followed a tip-tilted nose into the room. The nose belonged to Prudence Rockley, a cousin of Alfred and the stillroom maid of the establishment. She carried a feather duster and a smile which, so Sir Geoffrey affirmed, was worth an extra five pounds a year in wages. “Boo!” said she. Alfred dropped the tankard and caught it again deftly. The Squire encouraged cricket. Prudence laughed. Alfred displayed some irritation. “There you go again.” He spoke with the Wilts accent, an accent dear to the Squire and his lady, as being the unmistakable voice of “his” people. Prudence shrugged a pretty pair of shoulders as she answered with the same rising inflection: “I’ll go, Alfred, if so be as I’m disturbing you at your—_work_.” “I came nigh on droppin’ the bloomin’ mug.” As he spoke, he rubbed it caressingly, but his eyes dwelt even more caressingly upon the stillroom maid, who, noting his glance, began dusting the articles upon the table. As she moved from the young man, she murmured interrogatively: “Why ever have ’ee brought it in here?” “I’ll tell ’ee, if you’ll give us a kiss, Prue.” “Don’t ’ee be silly!” Alfred retorted with conviction. “If it be silly to want to kiss ’ee, I be the biggest fule in the parish. ’Ee didn’t want coaxin’ las’ night, Prue.” To this Prudence replied with alluring directness and simplicity. “Be good, Alfie. If you kiss me afore ‘elevenses’ my cheeks ’ll be red as fire, and Uncle Ben ’ll ask questions.”