“Rather a spoiled beauty,” growled the Squire. “These London girls are all alike. I thought she looked scraggy, Mary. Thin blood—thin blood. An uncle died in an asylum.”
“Heavens! You never told me.”
The Squire glanced at the clock.
“Now, my dear, Ben is almost due. Tackle—him.”
“What can I say? What can I say?”
“Make him see himself, as you see him.”
Lady Pomfret became alert. Her eyes sparkled as she repeated reflectively:
“As I see him?”
The Squire answered trenchantly:
“Do that and all will be well. I shall leave you now, and smoke a cigar on the terrace. Give me a call, if you want me.”