She moved, like a line-of-battle ship, to her desk, and picked up an Estate ledger. Cicely made a sign to Pawley, who shook his head dubiously. Lady Selina, after a pause, said austerely:
“It’s as I thought. I must give Ephraim Exton a year’s notice from to-morrow, or lose a quarter. Cicely, send Agatha Farleigh to me. She’s on the lawn.”
Agatha was Lady Selina’s typist, and a protégée, a daughter of the village, who, by virtue of a lively intelligence, had been taught typewriting and stenography at the expense of the lady of the manor.
Cicely refused to budge, exclaiming loudly:
“If you turn out that old man, Mums, I don’t want to be here next November.”
“Next November?”
“You’ll be burnt in effigy on the village green. Guy Fawkes’ Day!”
“Rubbish! Run away and send Agatha to me.”
Cicely, in desperation, turned to Dr. Pawley.
“Doctor, have you nothing to say?”