She smiled at him, with a lift of her delicate brows.
“Oh, thank you, Geoffrey.”
“Not at all. God knows that I’m perfectly content with bread and cheese and a glass of ale, but I have to think of you and Margot. It is most unfortunate that our servants should have chosen such a moment to defy me. As for Lionel, I cannot trust myself to speak of him to you.”
Lady Pomfret attempted no defence of her son. And the thought of the approaching interview with Fishpingle was distressing her. What could she say to Ben? What would he say to her? Her attention was distracted, however, by the appearance of Margot, evidently clothed for the road, and looking more than ordinarily alert and sprightly. Somehow she gave the impression of speed, whenever she donned her motoring kit, of excess speed. Lady Pomfret, looking up at her, said to herself, “We could never have kept up with her.”
She greeted her hosts gaily, as if nothing had happened. This is a great gift given to few. No young lady of her years could skate so gracefully and swiftly over the thinnest ice.
“My Rolls-Royce will be round in five minutes.”
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the Squire. “Surely you will stay to luncheon?”
“Dear Sir Geoffrey, how could I put you to the inconvenience of entertaining me at such a moment? My maid tells me that all your servants are on strike.”
“All of ’em?” gasped the Squire.
Lady Pomfret murmured soothingly: