“I meant ’em. There is a cottage for you——”
“May the Lard bless ’ee, Sir Geoffrey!”
Sir Geoffrey raised a minatory finger.
“Provided, mark you, that each marries—somebody else.”
This was too much for the feelings of an inflamed maid. Prudence confronted the autocrat with heaving bosom and sparkling eyes.
“If so be, as I can’t have Alfred, I’ll die a sour old maid, I will.”
Her outburst provoked the Squire to unmagisterial wrath. He raised his voice and a dominating hand.
“Hold your tongue! We have had quite enough of this. I can’t prevent Alfred marrying you, you little baggage, but if he does he must find another place, and a cottage in a parish which doesn’t belong to me.”
Prudence’s courage and defiance oozed from her. With a wailing cry, she flung herself into Fishpingle’s arms.
“Uncle Ben——!”