“No, Sir Geoffrey. Mrs. Randall lets Prudence go out, if there’s no pressing work.”
The Squire stamped his foot.
“Pressin’ work. Ha—ha! Hit the right word, for once. Very pressin’ work, b’ Jove! In defiance of my orders, I caught Alfred and Prudence kissin’ each other—under my very nose. Pressin’ work, indeed. They skedaddled. Hunted cover. Spoiled my sport, I tell you. I couldn’t get out a clean line. Are they in now?”
“I think so, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Send for ’em—at once. Bring ’em here. Don’t stare at me, boy! I’m not suffering from suppressed gout, as you think. I’ll stop these gallivantings.”
“You have often said that you liked our men and maids to have a whiff of fresh air between tea and dinner.”
Fishpingle had left the room. The Squire stamped again.
“I did. And this is what comes of thinking for others.”
“Father——?”
“What is it?”