“Does an old crusty bachelor flatter himself that he knows the real thing?”
“He does, my lady.”
Lady Pomfret laughed gaily. The freedom and familiarity of her intercourse with this faithful servant were the greater because she knew that he was incapable of abusing his privileges.
“Ben,” she continued, “I am quite sure that your fighting instincts have been aroused. Don’t shake your head! I know you, and you know me. The Squire is thinking of sending Alfred away, but I ventured to point out to him that he was a most excellent servant, who understood our ways, and that poor Charles, his godson”—she chuckled—“was hardly ready for promotion. That gave him pause. Now I suggest to you the propriety of marking time. Youth can wait, and so can Age. This tempest in our teapot will blow over. And— strictly between ourselves—we must give undivided attention to a match which more seriously concerns the fortunes of our family.”
Fishpingle became alert instantly.
“Master Lionel is coming home,” he exclaimed. “This is great news, my lady, wonderful news.”
“We don’t know for certain, Ben. It is probable. And then——!”
“And then?”
She recovered her sprightliness, which had vanished at mention of her son. He was with his regiment in India. He had exchanged from an English battalion because his lungs were none too strong. The dreadful word was never spoken, but Fishpingle knew that a slight but unmistakable tendency to consumption had manifested itself. There was reason to believe that the young fellow had grown more robust in the Punjab. But the taint, the predisposition, had been inherited from his mother’s family, the Belwethers.
Lady Pomfret’s eyes twinkled.