“Certainly, Geoffrey. In your own room, I suppose?”
“In my own room.”
He led the way to the library, which contained a vast number of calf-bound volumes which nobody disturbed. Here, above the book-cases, hung portraits of favourite hunters and hounds. Between them grinned the masks of half a dozen foxes, and on the mantel-shelf might be seen two hunting-horns brilliantly polished by Alfred, although much dented. The Squire found a chair for Lady Pomfret, but remained standing.
“Mary, I am upset.”
“Dear Geoffrey, I am so sorry. What has upset you?”
“Ben.”
“Dear me! Not wilfully, I am sure.”
“Don’t be too sure,” he snapped out. “Ben presumes upon my friendship and forbearance. I was fool enough to take him into my confidence this morning.”
“In my humble opinion that is not a foolish thing to do.”
“Isn’t it, b’ Jove! You wait. I spoke to him of our little plan, our little match-making plan.”