Leaving Fishpingle, the Squire walked down the passage which led past the pantry into the housekeeper’s room, where he knew he would find his wife. During the hour when he did accounts with his butler, Lady Pomfret passed the same time with housekeeper and cook. The Squire was so ruffled, as he stumped down the passage, that he broke one of his own inviolate rules, and called out “Mary, Mary,” as if he were shouting for a housemaid. Lady Pomfret’s clear tones came back. “I am here, Geoffrey.” Her smile, as she answered him, delighted the cook, an old and privileged retainer. It said so unmistakably: “Poor dear man! He can’t help it. When he gets excited he wants—_me_.” The cook’s answering smile was broader but as easily read as Lady Pomfret, who interpreted it thus: “Yes, my lady, the men are all alike, we have to drop our jobs, when they need—_us_.” Sir Geoffrey appeared, red of face, and congested of eye, but he minded his manners. “Good morning, Mrs. Mowland. How are you? As well and hearty as ever, I hope?” The cook curtsied. She was one of his own people. The Squire’s civilities were greatly appreciated in the “room” and in the servant’s hall. He knew the names of everybody, high and low, in his establishment, and could talk familiarly with a scullery-maid, asking politely after her brothers and sisters, and sure to pay her a compliment if her cheeks were sufficiently rosy. In his own dining-room, were the potatoes not to his liking, he might instruct Fishpingle to throw them at Mrs. Mowland’s head, but such extravagance of behaviour endeared him to his household. The autocrat was so very human. He spoke, not quite so pleasantly, to his wife: “Mary, my dear, I want a word with you.” “Certainly, Geoffrey. In your own room, I suppose?” “In my own room.” He led the way to the library, which contained a vast number of calf-bound volumes which nobody disturbed. Here, above the book-cases, hung portraits of favourite hunters and hounds. Between them grinned the masks of half a dozen foxes, and on the mantel-shelf might be seen two hunting-horns brilliantly polished by Alfred, although much dented. The Squire found a chair for Lady Pomfret, but remained standing. “Mary, I am upset.” “Dear Geoffrey, I am so sorry. What has upset you?” “Ben.” “Dear me! Not wilfully, I am sure.” “Don’t be too sure,” he snapped out. “Ben presumes upon my friendship and forbearance. I was fool enough to take him into my confidence this morning.” “In my humble opinion that is not a foolish thing to do.” “Isn’t it, b’ Jove! You wait. I spoke to him of our little plan, our little match-making plan.” Lady Pomfret smiled ironically. The use of the possessive pronoun tickled her humour. He made so sure that his little plan was hers. And, really, that was very sweet of him. The Squire saw no derision in her smile; he was too much perturbed. “Ah! What did Ben say?”