Lionel sat upon the edge of the Cromwellian table.
“Sit down, old chap. What d’ye think father will say to this?”
“Sir Geoffrey will say a great deal. I hardly dare think what he will say.”
Lionel betrayed distress. Fishpingle’s expression brought back the qualms which kindly sleep had banished.
“She’s so sweet,” he murmured.
Fishpingle nodded.
“She is, Master Lionel. You’ve chosen a wife, sweet as a field the Lord has blessed. She’ll make your life and the lives of others as fragrant as her own.”
“If you feel that, why can’t father feel the same, after—after the first disappointment? Of course, you guessed his little plan. Everybody did. When I passed round the field with that little plan on Saturday, I heard snickers—and so did she.”
“That clean bowled me, Master Lionel. I saw you together. It was too much for me. I missed an easy ball, because one eye was on you.”
“How shall we break this to father?”