“And my god-daughter, b’ Jove!” “Yes, Sir Geoffrey.” She curtsied again. The question had been asked and answered many times. The Squire was now at his best—“in touch,” as he put it, with his own people. He stroked an ample chin. “I have sixteen god-daughters in Nether Applewhite, and the welfare of all of ’em is near and dear to my heart. Nineteen, are yer?” He surveyed her critically. “And one of ten, too?” She smiled. “All alive and doin’ well?” Prudence nodded; the Squire rubbed his hands together. “Capital! The crop that never fails. How many in your family, Alfred?” “Seven, Sir Geoffrey. No—eight.” Alfred grinned deprecatingly. Instantly the Squire’s voice grew testy. “What d’ye mean, sir, by your ‘seven, no eight’?” “I forgot my twin brother, Sir Geoffrey, him as died afore I was christened. I was only a lil’ baby at the time.” “Yes, yes, I remember. Sad affair. Diphtheria. Cost me a pretty penny. Drains—damn ’em.” For a moment silence imposed itself, broken by the soft, coaxing voice of Prudence. “And—eugannicks, Sir Geoffrey?” The Squire pulled himself together, inflating his chest, astride a favourite hobby. He began glibly enough: “Drains, my girl, are a vital part of eugenics, but it begins—it begins——Um! It’s not easy to make myself perfectly plain to a young girl.” Alfred grinned again, Prudence said reflectively: “That’s what Alferd said, Sir Geoffrey.” Alfred’s grin vanished as the Squire’s keen eyes rested upon him. “Bless my soul? Have you been discussing eugenics with my god-daughter?” Alfred moved uneasily. “She did ask for information, Sir Geoffrey; and I made so bold as to refer her to Mr. Fishpingle.” The Squire’s face indicated relief. “Yes, yes, Mr. Fishpingle will explain. Dear me! Is that the William and Mary tankard?” “Yes, Sir Geoffrey.” “What the doose is it doin’ there—upside down?” “Mr. Fishpingle’ll explain that, Sir Geoffrey. His very particular orders. I—I think I hear him coming, Sir Geoffrey.” Prudence began dusting again as Fishpingle came into the room. He was a slightly older man than the squire and bore his years less lightly. He was something of the Squire’s build, a fine figure of a man—so the women said—and he bore upon a thinner, more refined face, the same look of authority. As soon as he saw his master he smiled delightfully. Sir Geoffrey growled out: “You ought to be a policeman, Ben.” “A policeman, Sir Geoffrey?” “You’re never about when you’re most particularly wanted. Have you looked at the mare?” Fishpingle answered easily with the respectful assurance of an old servant who had gone rabbiting with his master when they were boys together. “You won’t ride her again this season, Sir Geoffrey. She never was quite up to your weight, and this spring hunting on hard ground is cruel work on the hocks. She’ll have to be fired, the pretty dear.” “Turn her out into the water-meadows.” “Very good, sir.” “And now, pray tell me, what is the meaning of—that?”