Alfred thanked the Autocrat, and withdrew. Charles happened to be the Squire's godson, and not a credit to his sponsor. Sir Geoffrey stared at his bovine face, now exhibiting a grin which might be seen at funerals and on all momentous occasions, a grin indicating nervousness and apprehension. If Sir Geoffrey could have looked through a very massive desk, he would have reprimanded Charles for standing on one foot and scratching his calf with the other.
"What do you propose to do, Charles?"
"I be thinking, Sir Gaffrey."
"Good. I want my people to exercise such thought as God has given to 'em. What conclusion have you come to—hey?"
"Mother don't fancy me going for a soldier."
"Possibly not. But this is a case for your conscience, not for your mother's fancy."
He spoke with increasing testiness.
"I be thinking, Sir Gaffrey," he repeated, with a still broader grin.
"Very well. Off with you! Think hard for the next twenty-four hours, and I'll see you again."
"Yas, Sir Gaffrey."