He walked his horse up the footpath to the door, and on this he beat a rousing tattoo, still without dismounting.
During the pause that ensued he whistled a few more elaborate bars of his melody, and then, coming to a break, bent and knocked again.
The door opened in haste as if agitated by the second summons, and Mrs. Lovelace, red-faced from her kitchen fire, appeared curtseying in the entrance.
"So sorry to keep you waiting, my lord! The girl's gone to church. And will your lordship be pleased to walk in? We'd only heard this morning of your lordship's return, and we'd not hardly expected to see your lordship up so soon."
"A merry Christmas to you, Lovelace!" said his lordship, with that most engaging grin of his; he leaned towards her confidentially. "Take this for love of me, in honour of the occasion!"
He slipped a coin into Mrs. Lovelace's hand that caused her to curtsey again ecstatically and wish him every blessing she could call to mind on the spur of the moment. But he laughed easily and cut her short.
"Hear, hear! But I can't stop to listen. Where's Jake Bolton? Is he in?"
"Well, no, my lord. I'm sorry to say Mr. Bolton's gone to church."
"Sorry! Oh, come, Mother Lovelace, spare my morals! I always thought going to church was an innocent amusement. Don't disabuse me of my childish fancies! But what's the good of my walking in if the boss is out and you are cooking the turkey? Unless you're wanting someone to come and turn the spit!"
Mrs. Lovelace raised hands of horrified protest. "How your lordship do carry on, to be sure! No, no, my lord! I was only thinking that you'd maybe fancy a glass of my cherry brandy with the wind in the east as it is. I'm sure as Mr. Bolton would be wishful for me to make the suggestion."