“Go easy with them! They love each other dearly.”
“Good God! They’re first-cousins, boy. Not a word! Stay here! You shall see me deal with ’em.”
“But——”
“Not a word,” roared the Squire.
Lionel lit a cigarette, frowning, conscious that he was being treated as a child, resenting it, anxious to plead for the lovers, anticipating “ructions,” and condemned to be present, a silenced witness. Fishpingle came back, followed by Prudence and Alfred, looking very sheepish and red. Alfred was in livery. Prudence had not changed a very dainty little frock.
“Stand there!” commanded the autocrat.
The blushing pair stood still in front of the table, facing the Squire, who sat erect in his chair, assuming a judicial impassivity, as became a Justice of the Peace and a Chairman of the Board of Guardians. He addressed Fishpingle, coldly:
“Now, Ben, did I, or did I not, give you a message some two months ago to be delivered by you to Prudence?”
“You did, Sir Geoffrey.”
“Kindly repeat it.”