“And me, Geoffrey.”
The Squire, at bay, pressed too hard, and seeing, possibly, derisive gleams in more than one pair of eyes, said curtly:
“I propose to be master in my own house.”
Margot compressed her lips. She admitted candidly that any woman may be snubbed once. It is her own fault if she courts a second rebuff. She laughed acidulously, said very chillingly, “Oh, certainly,” and left the room. Lady Pomfret approached her husband, and laid her hand upon his sleeve.
“Prudence is Ben’s kinswoman, very dear to him. If Ben approves this match, what business is it of ours?”
Sir Geoffrey answered obstinately:
“They were born and bred in my parish, this impudent couple. They can do what they like—out of it.”
Lady Pomfret kept her temper admirably. If she travelled along lines of least resistance, she reached her goal eventually. She turned to Fishpingle with a little rippling laugh:
“Ah, well, I leave the Squire with you, Ben. We know—don’t we?—how kind he can be.”
She went out. Lionel opened the door for his mother, closed it behind her, and came back. Obviously, he was losing control of his temper. His fingers were clenched; an angry light sparkled in his eyes; he carried a high head. Sir Geoffrey saw none of this. He was glaring at Fishpingle. The autocrat addressed his butler: