Lady Pomfret said placidly:
“Dear Joyce is staying to luncheon. We are going into the garden. Do you wish to come with us, Geoffrey?”
“Join you presently,” replied the Squire. “Ben and I are talking over a little business—ways and means, ways and means, and more ways than means, worse luck!”
The ladies withdrew. Sir Geoffrey moved to the fireplace, standing in front of it, facing Fishpingle and frowning.
“Ben?”
“Sir Geoffrey?”
“I’m a bit worried. You know, none better, that I’ve a nose.” He stroked that well-formed feature as he spoke. “So have you. It’s a devilish odd thing, but your nose—after pokin’ itself into my affairs for a thousand years—has shaped itself after my pattern.”
“I dare say, Sir Geoffrey. It’s a good pattern.”
“You heard that young lady just now, and you must have been surprised, as I was, although you stood like a graven image. She had a letter from Master Lionel this morning. Now, why does he write to her? As between man and man, as between stout old friends, what d’ye make of it—hay?”
Fishpingle was not prepared to say what he made of it. Knowing his master, he temporised.