“Don’t you think, Lady Pomfret, that we are sharper than men in noticing significant trifles?” “You are, I am sure.” “A lone orphan has to be. Perhaps you disregard things and focus your attention upon persons?” “Yes; I think I do.” Lady Margot turned to Lionel, addressing him quite easily, as if she had known him for years. “Have you a cigarette? My case is in the motor.” “If you like Turkish.” She lay back, puffing contentedly, surveying the Pomfrets through half-closed eyes. They were sitting under a big walnut tree, said to be a sanctuary from gnats and midges. The great lawn, bordered by beeches, stretched far away into the distance till it melted into the park. Beyond the undulating park and below it lay the Avon valley now embellished by a soft haze—the finest view in Wiltshire, according to the Squire. Visitors praised this view. Lady Margot, guessing as much, said nothing. However, her attitude, her air of being contentedly at home, might be considered better than any compliment. She murmured lazily: “How delicious it is here!” She blew a tiny circle of smoke, and watched it melt away, smiling like a child. The Squire said heartily: “We shall measure your approval by the length of your visit. A fortnight, at least.” Presently Fishpingle and Alfred approached to take away the tea. Lady Margot greeted the butler by name. “How do you do, Mr. Fishpingle?” “I am quite well, my lady, thank you.” She smiled pleasantly at Alfred, who knew his place and remained impassive. Her cleverness in speaking to an old retainer delighted Sir Geoffrey. He glanced at his son, as if saying, “She’s the right sort, you see—a pleasant word for everybody.” As the men-servants moved away, she said to Lionel: “Your butler is a dear.” “You remembered his name,” chuckled the Squire. “That pleased him. I could hear the old boy purring.” “But who could forget his name? Where did he get it? Is it a local name?” The Squire stiffened. Lady Margot perceived that she had been indiscreet. He answered formally: “It is not a local name. How he came by it I can’t tell you.” She wondered vaguely if her host could tell, but wouldn’t. Swiftly she changed the conversation, with a glance at Lionel’s trim gaiters and breeches. “I have brought a habit.” “We can _mount_ you,” said Lionel. “If you were staying on till August, we could give you a day with our buckhounds.” “Oh, why, why didn’t I come to you in August? I have never been out with buckhounds. Tell me all about it.” Lionel obeyed. The Squire slipped away, followed by Lady Pomfret. As soon as they were out of hearing, he whispered to his wife: “A good start, my dear. And, mark me, she’ll make the running.” “I think she will, Geoffrey.” “Just as clever as they make ’em, Mary. Was it mere luck her pickin’ out a subject which the boy can talk really well about?” “Oh, no.” “Do you think she likes him?” “Ask me that the day after to-morrow.” * * * * *