Alas! Poor Alfred! The question undid him. Had he remained silent, Margot might have triumphed. The Squire was melting beneath her fiery glances. He wanted to please her. He loved to confer a favour royally. But a voice from outside froze the very cockles of his heart.
“Aye. That I be, my lady.”
Such an interruption, at such a time, from such a source, filled the Squire with fury. He roared out:
“Ben.”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“Discharge that impertinent rascal at once.”
Lady Pomfret spoke and looked her dismay.
“Oh, Geoffrey! Who will wait at dinner? Poor Charles is so inefficient.”
Sir Geoffrey lowered his voice.
“Discharge him after dinner. Pay him his wages, and send him packing.”