“Silence, sir!”
“I thought, I believed, that I knew you. And I did know you once. But you have changed—changed. You are no longer my master. I am no longer your man. Discharge your own servants, Sir Geoffrey Pomfret!”
With shining eyes and features quivering with agitation, he ended upon a clarion note of defiance and wrath. Sir Geoffrey was infinitely the calmer.
“I take you at your word,” he said. “I discharge—you. For her ladyship’s sake, not mine, I ask you to wait upon us at dinner for the last time. To-morrow morning, at ten-thirty, you can bring your books and accounts to my room.”
Fishpingle bowed.
Sir Geoffrey waited one moment. Perhaps, at the last, he looked for an apology. None came. Fishpingle stood erect, but less rigid. His indignation passed swiftly. His glance lost its fire; his eyes, still smouldering, assumed a sorrowful expression.
Sir Geoffrey went out. The clock in the stable-yard chimed and then tolled the hour—seven. Upon the previous Saturday it had rung out with the same solemn note a delightful day.
CHAPTER XVI
Lionel was clever enough to realise that he had behaved like a fool within five minutes of leaving Fishpingle’s room. He hastened to his mother, and, by the luck of things, found her alone. He could see that she was infinitely distressed already, inasmuch as a visitor had been treated with discourtesy. She dwelt on this, not without humour, till Lionel stopped her. His abrupt manner, so unlike him, alarmed her instantly. She put out her hand, as if to ward off the coming blow. He seized it and kissed it. Then she guessed.