The Squire addressed his wife, peremptorily:
“Please leave us, Mary.”
Lady Pomfret stood up. The two men gazed at her, each profoundly moved in different ways. To each she revealed herself as mistress of the situation. Never had her quality shone out so unmistakably. Her serenity came back, and with it an indescribable emanation of power—that undeniable authority founded not upon tradition and pride of place, but radiating dazzingly from a pure and sincere heart. To Fishpingle she seemed transfigured; to Sir Geoffrey, for the moment, she had ceased to be his wife. She moved slowly to Fishpingle:
“God bless you, my dear Ben.”
Sir Geoffrey opened the door. His courtesy didn’t fail him.
Lady Pomfret paused before she passed through. Her voice was clear and sweet:
“And may God bless all you do, my dear husband.”
Sir Geoffrey closed the door.
He went back to the open window, hoping, possibly, to inhale inspiration from Nether-Applewhite air. Really, he was gasping for air, like a boxer after a stiff bout. And yet, flustered as he was, he remained the slave of habit. Always he had pigeon-holed affairs of importance, dealing drastically with little things, purging his mind of them first, so that he could approach the big thing with a clear brain. Sound policy! At this crisis, when, as he put it, the foundations of life seemed to be crumbling, when his wife and his son arraigned his authority, he returned, like an old hound, to the original line, bent upon pulling down his quarry. His wife had failed him! The greater reason that he should not fail. In his own words, “Ben must be downed.” To achieve this with dignity and courtesy engrossed his energies and attention.