Already he felt uncomfortably warm, so he got up and opened a window, staring out of it across the park. When he came back to his desk, he noticed a big ledger upon a chair. He took it up, dipped into it, frowned, and dropped it with a bang upon the carpet. This enormous tome was Fishpingle’s petty-cash book. The Squire seized a quill and a sheet of paper. The quill scratched and spattered ink. Sir Geoffrey hurled it over his shoulder and selected another. He began a list, headed: “Secretary—butler—first footman—stillroom maid——”
He laid down his quill, beginning to mutter again, inarticulate growlings. Whose business was it to attend to these domestic duties? He must find that out at once. He rang the bell. After an exasperating delay Charles appeared.
“Why the devil don’t you come when I ring, sir?”
“I be single-handed, Sir Gaffery.”
“Yes, yes, I had forgotten. My compliments to her ladyship and I wish to see her for a minute.”
“Yas, Sir Gaffrey. Be you wanting her old ladyship or her young ladyship?”
“My wife you idiot!” roared the Squire.
“Yas, sir Gaffrey.”
The Squire paced up and down the room till Lady Pomfret came in. Beads of perspiration stood upon his massive forehead. He wiped them away with an immense bandana. But he smiled pleasantly at his wife as her kind tones fell like dew upon his heated tissues of mind and body.
“You want me, Geoffrey?”