She arrived in May, driving her Rolls-Royce, and accompanied by a chauffeur and a French maid.
Sir Geoffrey, as was his wont, received her at the front door. The warmth of the reception rather astonished her. But it was quite in keeping, so she reflected, with the hospitable air of the house, a fine specimen of late Elizabethan architecture. To luxury in its myriad phases she was accustomed; comfort, as the Pomfrets interpreted the word, might be more restful. She promised herself fresh and diverting experiences in studying types which she had supposed to be extinct.
This first visit was an enormous success.
She beheld, of course, half a dozen different photographs of the Rifleman, and asked many questions concerning him.
“He is no popinjay,” affirmed Sir Geoffrey.
“Do you call him clever?” she asked the proud father.
“Clever! Now, my dear, what the doose d’ye mean by ‘clever’?”
“Quite frankly, Sir Geoffrey, I ask for information.”
“Am I clever?” demanded the Squire.
“Oh no, dear Geoffrey,” said his wife, tranquilly.