He apostrophised Alfred, who may have misinterpreted a derisive but calm inflection. Alfred brightened, his voice was eager and propitiating.
“If so be, Sir Geoffrey, as you meant what you wrote in the newspapers. Give me mort o’ comfort. ’Twas in the Times. Mr. Fishpingle’ll have it. He keeps everything you write, he do.”
The Squire stared at his footman. Lionel said quietly:
“What did Sir Geoffrey write, Alfred?”
Alfred assumed a pose acquired in the National schools, head erect, hands at side, feet close together.
“Sir Geoffrey said that the sooner a man o’ twenty-five and a fine young maid of eighteen set about providin’ legitimate an’ lawful subjects for the king, the better. An’ more than that. I got the piece by heart, I did. He said that in Nether-Applewhite he paid a premium for such there matches—a lil’ cottage, look, and a lil’ garden, and a fi’-pun’ note, so be as God A’mighty sent twins.”
Prudence blushingly rebuked him.
“Alferd!”
“His brave words, Prue, not mine.”
Sir Geoffrey coughed. That a servant of his should memorise his prose might be deemed flattering and eminently proper. He said graciously: