Fishpingle held up his hand.
“Don’t sing! And—not a word of this to Prudence till I’ve spoken to her.”
Alfred nodded and withdrew.
Alone, once more, Fishpingle moved restlessly about the room. He was sensible of some premonition of trouble, some lurking doubt of his power to smooth the path of these simple lovers, some fear that interference on his part might be obstinately resented. Work might have distracted him, but for the moment there was not work enough for two able-bodied footmen, not to mention the odd man, who laboured more abundantly than them all.
He sat down at the Sheraton bureau, and took from a drawer a much battered tin box, which he opened with a small key attached to his watch chain. The box held some letters and a miniature. In his less robust moments, when any really pressing appeal happened to be made to his sentimental side, a side carefully hidden from Nether Applewhite, Fishpingle was in the habit of opening this box, and looking at the miniature. He might, if the necessity were really importunate, read a letter or two. He had picked up the miniature when a tap at the door was heard.
“Come in.”
Prudence appeared. Fishpingle was not deceived by her self-composed and almost valiant deportment. He knew that she had missed “elevenses” and had spent at least a quarter of an hour crying in her room, and as much time again in repairing the ravages wrought by tears. As he was expecting her, and didn’t wish her to know it, he expressed a mild surprise.
“Is everybody as idle as I am in this house?”
She perched herself upon his knee, put one arm round his neck, and kissed his forehead.
“Dear Uncle Ben,” she cooed.