“Yes, my pretty maid?”
“What are—eugannicks?”
Sir Geoffrey hesitated and coughed, but he was not the man to crane long at an awkward fence.
“Well, well, how can I put it plainly to an intelligent child?”
“I be nineteen, Sir Geoffrey, come Michael-mas.”
“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.”