“They are our own people, part of the soil, and we live in the country all the year round. London makes servants restless. Change excites them. We have been fortunate in these—possessions. You are right, Margot, they are priceless.” “I see you can’t whisper your secret to me.” “There is no secret.” Margot laughed, with a little gesture of resignation. Evidently, Lady Pomfret was not to be coaxed or flattered into talking about her amazing butler. Skilfully, she selected and cast another fly. “Your stillroom maid, Prudence, Fishpingle’s niece, is charming. I ventured to ask for the recipe of those melting griddle cakes we have at tea. She said that the recipe was yours.” “You are most welcome to it.” “Thank you so much. Prudence is the apple of Fishpingle’s eye, but you have chief place in his heart.” Lady Pomfret “sat up,” in every sense of that slangy phrase. “Bless me! He told you that?” “Not he. I guessed. You reign supreme.” Margot sighed. Not without reason had an inspired minor poet given her the nickname—La Reine Margot. She wished to reign, not merely over men, but with a wider dominion over all—something difficult of achievement in London. As the _châtelaine_ of Beaumanoir Chase this dominating instinct might have been gratified. She could say bitter things about the Salique law. Lady Pomfret wondered why such a visitor, so “smart” (to use an odious word), had settled down contentedly at Pomfret Court, where the entertainment of a town guest must be considered hum-drum. At this moment light came to her. She divined that Margot was studying intelligently conditions which made petty sovereignty possible. She remembered the “pumping” of Joyce, which amused her at the time. Purpose underlay the many questions. She remembered, also, that Margot missed no opportunity of ingratiating herself with Bonsor and others at the Home Farm. She supposed that this was Margot’s “way” (which paid!), and part of a sincere desire to please the Squire. Lastly, regarding her own son with a fond mother’s eye, she had been shrewd enough to realise that, matrimonially, he was no great “catch” for an heiress of quality. In her heart, whilst humouring her husband, she had confidently expected a “_débâcle_.” A dasher had dashed at a new experience. Very soon, such a personage would be bored and flit elsewhere, a case, in fine, of Marie Antoinette milking cows! And now, swiftly, she was modifying these premature conclusions. To make assured her new foundations, she, too, cast a fly. As a fisherman, she was quite as adroit as Margot. “I reign happily over a small establishment. My rule, such as it is, imposes penalties. In my place, Margot, you would be bored.” Margot “rose” instantly. The fly stuck fast in her throat. And the moment had come, she decided, when sincerity would best serve her purpose. She replied eagerly—