“But—suppose he asks me to stay?” Fishpingle made a gesture. “If he asks me to stay, Ben, I shall do so.”
He replied formally:
“As your ladyship pleases.”
Sir Geoffrey entered, with a half-smoked cigar between his fingers. He had assumed a somewhat jaunty deportment. Nether-Applewhite air, fresh from the downs, had blown away the fog. He was prepared to be “magnanimous.” Margot’s advice “Forgive them handsomely!” simmered in his thoughts. He would make the young people happy and grateful, if Ben apologised. For the moment Lionel’s affair was pigeon-holed. His house must be put in order without delay.
As he advanced towards his wife, the Squire shot a keen glance at Fishpingle, standing in the centre of the room. His heart warmed towards an old friend who looked, b’ Jove! confoundedly down in the mouth, with a complexion the colour of skilly.
He said pleasantly:
“Good morning, Ben.”
“Good morning, Sir Geoffrey.”