Wellgood was back from a ride round his farms—a weekly observance with him. He had been grimly encouraging the good husbandmen, badly scaring the inefficient, advising them all to keep their labourers in order, and their womankind as near to reason as could be hoped for. Now he had his hour of relaxation over tea. He was a great tea-drinker—four or five cups made his allowance. Tea is often the libertinism of people otherwise severe. He leant back in his garden-chair, his gaitered legs outstretched, and drank his tea, Isobel Vintry replenishing the swiftly-emptied cup. She performed the office absent-mindedly—with an air of detachment which hinted that she would fulfil her duties, routine though they might be, but must not be expected to think about them.
"Where's Vivien?" he asked abruptly.
"In the west wood—with Mr. Harry. He said they'd be back for tea."
"Oh!" He finished his third cup and handed the vessel over to her to be refilled. "Things getting on?"
"Yes, I think so. Here's your tea."
"Why do you think so? Give me another lump of sugar."
"Sugar at that rate'll make you put on too much weight. Well, I gave him a hint that the pear was ripe."
"You did? Well, I'm hanged!"
"You think I'm very impudent?"
"What did you say? But I daresay you said nothing. You've a trick with those eyes of yours, Isobel."