“Urban—eh? Well, why not? When you and I were her age, we liked London—what? I know I did. And I should like to see Master Lionel in Parliament. Between ourselves, Ben, I am hoping and praying that Master Lionel and Lady Margot will take a shine to each other. She liked his photograph, b’ Jove? And if I do say it, there isn’t a nicer young fellow in England. You’re starin’ at me like an owl. Can’t you say something?” “I took the liberty of looking Lady Margot up in the Peerage.” “Did you? Well, you found a thumpin’ good pedigree. No better stock anywhere.” “What there is of it, Sir Geoffrey.” “Hay.” Fishpingle rose slowly, crossed the room to the bookcase and took down his “Burke.” The Squire watched him with impatience. “Your slow ways irritate me. Where did ye get that Peerage?” “I bought it, Sir Geoffrey.” Fishpingle opened the big book, and put on his spectacles. Having found the page, entitled “Beaumanoir,” he pushed the volume across to the Squire, who adjusted his pince-nez. “Not much stock left,” said Fishpingle. The Squire frowned, running his forefinger up the page. “You’ve been talking to my lady,” he snapped out. “No, Sir Geoffrey.” “Then she’s been talking to you.” “Not about the Maltravers family.” “Um! The stock has worn thin, but what of it—what of it? An infusion of fresh, healthy blood is needed.” He closed the Peerage with a bang. “Take the damned book away!” Fishpingle replaced it, and came back. “Sit you down man,” Fishpingle obeyed. “I take you unreservedly into my confidence.” Fishpingle bowed solemnly. “I want to bring about this match. As I told my lady—no pressure. It must come about naturally. I haven’t asked anybody to meet Lady Margot here. The young people will be thrown together, and there you are!” Fishpingle remained obstinately silent. The Squire glared at him. “You don’t share my wish, you crusty old dog? What’s in your mind. Speak out freely!” “I was thinking, Sir Geoffrey, of young Lord Fordingbridge.” “Then your wits are wool-gathering. He married a year ago, and what a marriage, b’ Jove! His agent’s daughter.” “A fortnight ago,” said Fishpingle, with a faint smile, “her ladyship was safely delivered of twin sons. His lordship and his lordship’s father were only sons. That stock had worn thin.” Light came to the Squire and blazed in his blue eyes. “I take you, Ben, I take you. I suppose, if you had your way, you’d arrange a marriage between my son and a prolific milkmaid.” “It would be sound eugenics.” “Damn eugenics! I’d sooner see my boy dead in his coffin than marrying out of his own class. What d’ye say to that?” “Nothing, Sir Geoffrey. What wine will you drink to-night?” “Champagne,” roared the Squire, getting up. “I shall need a bottle to myself after this.” “Certainly, Sir Geoffrey.” * * * * * CHAPTER VIII