"Really, my dear, Mr. Higg-Wentworth can hardly be blamed for an error on the part of his ... er...."
The vicar's eyes rested with unclerical appreciation on the form of the recently smacked leader of the slaves. He wondered what her exact status in the establishment might be. Was she guest or servant? He decided not to risk it. "I am sure the—ah—young lady acted under a pure misapprehension."
His wife snorted.
"It is disgraceful, and their clothing is nothing short of immodest. Please send them away at once."
Alf gave an order to Mustapha, who translated it into Arabic. The slaves rose and after bowing low to Alf disappeared up the stairs with much swirling of draperies and jingling of anklets. Mrs. Davies averted her face, but the vicar's gaze followed them up the stairs until the last had disappeared.
Alf was feverishly anxious to make things right, and he turned on Mustapha.
"Look 'ere, Farr," he said sternly, "what's all this mean? Why was them girls bothering this lady?"
"Lord," said the steward, "verily it was supposed that this man had brought the woman hither to sell her unto thee, and for that reason...."
"What!" Mrs. Davies' voice and expression were such that even the imperturbable Mustapha broke off in alarm. Alf stammered out something unintelligible, but was cut short.
"You need say no more. I have heard and seen quite enough. I am ashamed to have set foot in such a place as this house has become. Dreadful!" She swept a glance of regal scorn round the hall. "Let me tell you, Mr. Higg-Wentworth, or whatever you call yourself, that you have not heard the last of this, nor those shameless undressed hussies of yours either. This is a law-abiding English village, where such things can be stopped I feel sure. I shall go straight to Sir Edward FitzPeter and see if something cannot be done. Come, Julian."