Lady Pomfret answered firmly:
“I should reckon no price too great for that, but your happiness is not bought—yet. Leave me alone, my dearest, for a few minutes.”
He kissed her tenderly and went.
Dinner was a lamentable affair, although an outsider might have found food for comedy. Alfred, for example, failed to follow the lead of Fishpingle, who conducted himself as usual. Charles, the second footman, looked like a mute at a funeral. Margot, however, shone brilliantly, lightly bridging chasms of silence. Lionel was not present. Just before dinner, Lady Pomfret went to Margot’s room, and put before her the facts. Margot shrugged her shoulders:
“But, really, as I said in Fishpingle’s room, this is feudal.”
“So it is.”
“Sir Geoffrey will have to surrender an untenable position.”
“I am not sanguine.”
That was all, and quite enough, too, as Margot reflected to herself. Whereupon she purged her mind of any desire that Lionel should suffer at his father’s hands. Her philosophy, her hatred of what was disagreeable, her temperamental inability to feel very deeply, hastened to her rescue. From some high coigne of vantage, she surveyed herself and could smile at her own discomfiture. If she could calm this tempest in a teapot, if she, unaided, could persuade her host that his position was untenable, with what trailing clouds of glory would she speed from Pomfret Court! Twice, between soup and savoury, she made the autocrat laugh. Lady Pomfret divined her kind intentions, and smiled derisively.
The almost interminable dinner ended.