The Buffitts Receive Visitors

13

The Buffitts Receive Visitors

    Once Mrs Buffitt had been calmed, the tears had been mopped, and she had ordered up a pot of tea, Mr Beresford said firmly: “I think I should speak to your husband without delay, ma’am.”

    “Huh!” snorted Lance.

    Rose smiled limply. “Damian is not a practical person, sir.”

    “I know that. Nevertheless he is head of your family.”

    “He’s building a miniature lock,” warned Lance. “Refuses to listen to anything that ain’t to do with it.”

    “Nevertheless.”

    “Why a lock?” asked Mr Valentine with interest.

    “No notion, sir,” said Lance glumly. “It’s an idea he took into his head some time since. –Go away, Lilibet, the grown-ups are talking,” he said severely to the little girl who had come into the room.

    “I want to talk, too!” she replied immediately, sticking out her chin a way that reminded Mr Beresford irresistibly of her sister Peg. Though Lilibet’s curls were dark, like Lance’s, not gold like Peg’s.

    “Not now, Lilibet,” said Rose mildly.

    Ignoring her mother, Lilibet came and placed herself firmly before Mr Valentine, fixing him with an unwavering stare.

    “Look, if you won’t get out of it, you might at least say Hullo to Cousin Jack, he has come all the way from London!” said Lance heatedly.

    “I know him,” she said dismissively. She continued to stare at Mr Valentine. “Have you got a dog?”

    “Not with me, no,” said that worthy mildly.

    “Look, if this is another attempt to get Timothée off me, it won’t work!” shouted Lance.

    “Have you got a dog at home?” she persisted.

    “Yes, an old spaniel. His name’s Freddy. You ain’t getting him,” said Mr Valentine calmly.

    “Lilibet, that will do,” said Rose feebly. “Leave the gentleman alone.”

    “Yes, and get out of it!” repeated Lance hotly.

    “What’s your name?” she asked, still staring.

    “Lucius Henry John Andrew Dalziel Valentine,” responded that gentleman, unmoved.

    “That’s a lot of names. –Put me DOWN!” she screamed as Lance grabbed her up bodily.

    “You can get on with your damned schoolwork.” Lance marched out with her screaming and kicking form.

    “I’m so sorry, Mr Valentine,” said Rose limply.

    “Not at all, ma’am. What is she, about eight? Aye. They can be horrible at that age.”

    “Yes. Well, the other girls and the boys were not. But Lilibet is becoming unmanageable,” admitted Rose ruefully.

    “Reminds me of m’sister Daphne. Ma had a governess to her, but it didn’t answer. Well, frogs in the poor woman’s bed was the least of it. Had to send her off to school, in the end: Miss Blake’s, near Brighton. Worked a treat. Came home a different girl.”

    “Even if we could afford it, I could not possibly send one of my daughters away!” said Rose in horror.

    “No? Commendable, ma’am, of course. Thing is, Ma thought that at first, but by the time Daphne was ten and hadn’t improved, she gave in. Think the thing was largely jealousy. Well, she was too little to join in the older girls’ concerns, and of course they rubbed it in. Then, there’s about a four years’ gap between her and the next one down, that’s Maisie, and Ma tended to spoil her, y’see: youngest of the brood. Daphne was jealous of that.”

    Rose gaped at him. Faintly she admitted: “Mr Valentine, that is exactly Lilibet’s position! The other girls are so much older, that it is not they who are the problem, however: it’s the boys. Bertie is forever telling her she’s either too young to join in whatever it may be, or only a girl, or most likely both. And she has always been horridly jealous of Tommy: he is only four.”

    “There you are, then. Dare say Jack might send her to school for you.”

    Poor Rose went very pink.

    “Val, that’ll do. You must excuse him, Cousin Rose: half of that is manner,” said Jack grimly to his connection.

    “I can see that, actually!” said Rose with a smile, recovering herself. “I rather think you are a person who understands quite a lot about people, are you not, dear sir? So how has your sister turned out?”

    Val smiled. “Happily married with a little one of her own, ma’am. Well, Ma took her up to Scotland the summer after her come-out to meet some of our Scotch cousins, and Matthew McLeod takes one look at her and falls for her like a ton of bricks! Sir Gordon and Lady M. didn’t raise no objections, though he could have done better for himself, being the eldest son. And it was plain as the nose on your face that Daphne had fallen for him in return. They were engaged by Christmas: married the following June.”

    “A happy ending!” said Rose, laughing. “Then perhaps there is hope for Lilibet, yet.”

    “Only if she is sent to school, we apprehend,” noted Mr Beresford.

    “Or someone does something else to get her out of it, yes,” said Mr Valentine calmly as the little maid staggered in under the tea-tray. He jumped up and helped her to set it down.

    “Shall you pour?” Mr Beresford asked him sweetly.

    Mr Valentine merely grinned amiably and said to their hostess: “Where are the girls, ma’am?”

    “Well, Maria is not staying with us. I sent Anne up to the Hall this morning to spend some time with her.”

    “Decided they could bawl together all over poor old Sir Horace, for a change,” explained Lance, coming back into the room and shutting the door firmly on the still-audible sound of Lilibet’s protests.

    Mr Beresford looked at him dubiously. “Are they still—?”

    “What do you think?” he returned grimly. “No, well, I grant you Maria’s stopped coming over every day to bawl: it’s only every other day, now. But Anne still has several fits a day.”

    “I see,” he said calmly, accepting a cup of tea. “–Thank you. And Hilton’s carriage?”

    Lance made a face. “Given it up, like I wrote.” He eyed him uneasily. “Um, did you see my letter to Peg, then, sir?”

    “Mm.”

    He gulped. “Oh.”

    “Your tact was much appreciated, though not by your sister,” he noted drily.

    “Y— Uh—”

    Mr Valentine passed him the plate of lumpy sandwiches. “She do know and she ain’t pleased, and we had best leave it at that.”

    Limply Lance took a sandwich, trying to smile. “Yes.”

    Rose had listened uncomprehendingly to this exchange, but she did not appear to feel any curiosity over it. “Bertie and George got on out of it at crack of dawn.”

    “Can’t support the bawling,” explained Lance grimly through his sandwich.

    “And who can blame them?” said their mother feelingly. “But Lance has been a tower of strength!”

    “So you said in your letter, ma’am,” agreed Mr Beresford, smiling.

    Lance was now very red. “Well, glad you think so, Ma, but the thing is, Cousin, can’t think of what to do!”

    “No, well, I do not think there is anything you can do, Lance, and it was entirely sensible of you to suggest your sister should ask my advice.”

    “Best thing y’could do, actually,” said Mr Valentine, unaffectedly investigating the interior of his sandwich.

    “It’s sorrel, Mr Valentine,” said Rose. “Don’t eat it if you do not care for it. Maria’s claim is that it makes an acceptable substitute for watercress; and we have half an acre of it in our kitchen garden.”

    “Taken over, has it?” he said mildly. “Don’t taste bad, at all. Unusual, mind. My Aunt Maggie’s garden was overrun by horseradish one year. Now, that was a problem, if y’like! One root of the stuff goes a dashed long way.”

    Mr Beresford eyed him drily; ten to one this was entirely apocryphal. “Which aunt is this?”

    “My great-aunt, actually: Ma’s aunt. She was a Dalziel: married a Scotch fellow called Lisle. She's been a widow for donkey’s ages. Pleasant little house on the edge of Lochailsh town.”

    “I see. Not Lady Stourbridge, then.”

    “No. –That’s my Pa’s sister, Margaret. Wouldn’t dare to call her Maggie,” Mr Valentine explained to the Buffitts. “Don’t think even horseradish would dare to run mad in her garden.”

    “I see. Bit of an Aunt Honeywell, then!” said Lance with a loud laugh.

    “Yes,” admitted Rose. “But you must not be horrid about her, because she has written the kindest letter!”

    “Offered to take damned Anne. Didn’t go down too well,” explained Lance, grimacing.

    “No, but it was a very kind thought,” said Rose with a sigh. “Well, the thing is, Mr Valentine, my elderly Cousin Honeywell is quite well off, and her house is certainly very comfortable, but she is the strictest old creature, and Annie-Pannie would hate having to be her companion and read sermons to her half the day.”

    “Not to be thought of,” he agreed kindly.

    “Rubbish, Val, it would be the very thing. It would get her out of the way of undesirables, and give the family a rest from the bawling,” drawled Mr Beresford.

    “Jack, I’m ashamed of you!” cried his friend, turning very red.

    “It might be the practical course, but Anne would be very unhappy,” explained Rose.

    “Don’t silly little geese deserve to be made to suffer the consequences of their actions, Cousin Rose?” he asked drily.

    “She is suffering quite enough, I assure you. She blames herself for the whole thing, whereas if those horrid Bon-Duttons were even halfway reasonable people, it would never, ever have been allowed to get to this stage!” said Rose crossly.

    Mr Valentine directed a minatory look at his old friend. “That’s the B.-D.s all over, I’m afraid, Mrs Buffitt. Dashed high in the instep. Well, set themselves higher than God Almighty. There’s a story that the previous duke’s sister turned down one of the Royal dukes.”

    “No, the previous duke’s aunt,” said Mr Beresford mildly, rising and helping himself to another sorrel sandwich.

    “Eh? Oh! Yes, of course; keep forgetting Chelford’s gone. Yes, that’s right. The new man’s great-aunt, she’d have been.”

    Mrs Buffitt expressing interest in the tale, Mr Valentine kindly elaborated for her.

    … “What did you have to say that about the poor little gal for?” he hissed crossly as, the tea being finished, Mrs Buffitt hurried out to pen a quick note advising Maria, and presumably Anne, that their Cousin Beresford had arrived.

    “What did you have to tell long, boring stories about your dashed aunts and the dashed Royal dukes for?” he responded drily.

    “Cheer the poor woman up a bit, take her mind off it, what do you think?” replied Mr Valentine crossly. “Pretty, ain’t she? Bit like Miss Buffitt, hey? Must have been a beauty in her day.”

    “Yes, she was,” said Lance faintly.

    “Yes, she is still very lovely,” agreed Mr Beresford mildly.

    Mr Valentine gave him a baffled glare.

    “Why are you glaring?”

    “Because you ain’t answered my question, Jack, as you very well know! Why did you cut up so stiff about the poor little gal not wanting to go to the frightful aunt?”

    “I suppose I wished to see what her mother would say.”

    “She said what any feeling woman would say!” retorted Mr Valentine hotly.

    “Mm.”

    “She—um—she is,” said Lance weakly.

    “Feeling, but if you will forgive my saying so, Cousin, not very sensible. The old hag could set your little sister up for life, if she cared to do so. –And before you start, Val, Aunt Honeywell is my connexion also: I do know what she’s like.”

    “I know that, Jack! The old bat what infests your ma’s house in Bath every autumn, ain’t she? Send off a poor little gal to be companion to that? I never heard of such a thing!”

    “No, well, you also are feeling but not very sensible, Val.”

    “I thought you was determined to have the poor little gal down to London?” he cried.

    “I am: what has that to say to the case?” responded Mr Beresford coolly.

    Mr Valentine breathed heavily.

    “You don’t mean Anne?” ventured Lance, turning scarlet.

    “Mm.”

    “It’s terribly good of you, sir!” he gasped. “But—um—it is all her fault, I suppose!”

    “I am glad to hear you admit it.” Mr Beresford rose. “I am going up to the hut to speak to your father.”

    Lance got up, looking slightly sick. “If he’s working on the lock, he’ll be just beyond the hut. Follow the stream, you cannot miss him. Er—should I come with you, though?”

    “No, that will not be necessary. Val, will you make my excuses to Cousin Rose? I dare say I shall not be long. –Thank you, Lance,” he said as Lance opened the door for him.

    “Um, may I tell Ma, Cousin Jack?”

    “About the suggestion that Anne should come to London? Why not?” he said coolly.

    Lance shut the door after him, and staggered back to his seat.

    After a few moments Mr Valentine said mildly: “Cool hand, Jack. Always has been.”

    “Y— Uh— Is he furious?” he croaked.

    Mr Valentine appeared to consider this. “Furious with the dashed B.-D.s, I’d say. Not with your little sister.”

    “Oh,” he said limply, sagging.

    “Damn’ good thing he’s got that busted wing, y’know. Even a B.-D. can’t call a man out what’s got a broken wing.”

    Lance looked at him in horror.

    “Mind you, Lord F.’s a bully: that sort don’t usually challenge anyone they might lose to, and Jack’s a dashed handy man with the foils or the pistols. Dare say he’d think twice about it, in any case.”

    “Sir, he didn’t come up here with the intention of facing up to him, did he?” he gasped.

    Mr Valentine grimaced, and scratched the glossy dark curls. “Don’t think so, no. But thought I’d best trot along to keep an eye on him, in case he looks like losing that temper of his.”

    “Thank you very much, sir!” he said fervently.

    “I have known him most of me life, y’know,” he said mildly, standing up as Rose came back in. “Jack’s gone off to have a word with your husband, ma’am. If that’s the note for Mrs Hilton, pray allow me to deliver it.”

    Feebly Rose objected. Mr Valentine insisted politely. Feebly she gave in.

    “Lance, who is he?” she said distractedly as he came back in from showing Mr Valentine the way to Monday Hall.

    “What? Oh, Mr Valentine? Well, he’s a friend of Cousin Jack’s, Ma. I must have mentioned him.”

    “No.”

    “Oh. Um—well, s’pose I did not see all that much of him. Very fashionable sort of man. Cousin Mendoza says he’s a friend of Henri-Louis de Bourbon, Shirley Rowbotham—that set. Um, well, Cousin Jack said he was cack-handed, but he says that of anyone what ain’t a Nonpareil like him!”

    “I have never seen anything like those clothes!” said Rose on a fervent note.

    “What? Oh. Does dress well, I suppose. Er—country wear, though, Ma.”

    “Country wear! How many men does it take to ease him into his coat, pray?”

    “Never asked him!” said Lance with a loud laugh.

    She sighed. “Why did you let me give him that note?”

    “What? Um, well he did offer. Um—dare say he feels like stretching his legs, after the journey. –Know how far Cousin Jack took the blacks?” he asked with shining eyes.

    “Lance, please—please—do not talk about horseflesh!” begged Rose, putting her hands over her ears.

    He eyed her uneasily. “Don’t you start bawling.”

    “I am not such a ninny. Though when I contemplate the state of the larder, I could well burst into tears! You realise we have nothing to feed them on?” she said fiercely.

    “Er—dare say they won’t expect to be fed.”

    “Lance, they have come all this way express to help us out of this stupid pickle: the least we can do is give them a meal!”

    “Not if we ain’t got nothing in the larder, we can’t,” he said logically.

    “Lance Buffitt, get out before I strangle you!” she screamed.

    Smiling uneasily, Lance slid out.

    “Sorrel soup,” said Rose dully to herself. “Oh, God.”

    The hut was empty. Grimly Mr Beresford walked on along the bank of the pretty little stream. Very soon he espied a panting, hatless figure, knee-deep in the water. The figure looked up as he approached.

    “Ah, there you are!” said Damian Buffitt happily. “Just grab the other end of this, dear fellow, would you?”

    Grimly Mr Beresford grasped the end of the log Mr Buffitt was manoeuvring. He did not attempt conversation until the log was disposed to Mr Buffitt’s satisfaction. Then he said grimly: “I wish to speak with you, Buffitt.”

    “Oh, certainly, certainly!” Mr Buffitt splashed over to him and held out his hand, smiling. Grimly Mr Beresford assisted him to clamber out.

    “Sit down,” said Mr Buffitt hospitably, resuming the tattered jacket that was cast aside on the muddy bank, and sitting down on the muddy grass.

    Grimly Mr Beresford sat.

    “I’m glad you’ve come. Lance tells me you’ve got a lake.”

    “Mere.”

    “Is it? Never mind, don’t need anything very large for this little experiment. A new sort of ferry. Large chain slung on a line of stanchions. Works by traction, rather like the idea of a barge horse pulling a barge, y’see; that’s what gave me the idea. Only this is a mechanical—”

    “No.”

    “A whole new concept, you see: not just to cross a stream, or even a river, but quite large bodies of water—”

    “No. And it is a considerable body of water. It is not mere, it is a mere. Beresmere,” he said clearly.

    “That’s it, yes!” agreed Mr Buffitt pleasedly. “In time the scheme might be enlarged: not just supporting stanchions, you see, but incorporating something along the lines of an aqueduct, so that—”

    “No.”

    “So that the same structure might be used not just for transport, but to irrigate the entire plain,” he said wistfully. “Even to carry water to the great cities.”

    “I suggest you write a paper on it for the Royal Society,” said Mr Beresford nastily. “I am here to discuss this mess your daughter appears to have landed Hilton in.”

    “The fellow should have made sure the girl did as she was told. Well—staying with them, up to them to see she behaved,” said Damian Buffitt without either interest or condemnation in his voice.

    “I dare say. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, the result is that Hilton has lost his job.”

    “Very logical,” approved Mr Buffitt. “Absolutely no point in bawling over spilt milk. But try to get the women to see it—” He shook his handsome head.

    “Possibly if you were to write Lord Frederick Bon-Dutton a note of apology, he would take your son-in-law back.”

    “Who?”

    Mr Beresford went very red. “The fellow at Chelford Place,” he said between his teeth.

    “Oh. Always thought it belonged to some duke, meself. No, well, he won’t take notice of me, dear fellow: why should he? Sir Horace Monday is the great man in our little district, y’know, and he didn’t take notice of him.” He looked thoughtfully at the contraption in the stream. “You wouldn’t care to purchase me a large draught horse, would you?”

    “No, I would not!”

    “Just a thought,” he murmured.

    “What about your brother?” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Ted? Quite a decent fellow, but absolutely under her thumb, y’see. She’d never let him buy me a draught horse,” he said sadly.

    “No! Can he help Hilton?” he shouted.

    “Mm? Oh. The place ain’t big enough for an agent. Dare say Ted might take him on, mind you, if left to himself, but she’d never permit it. Dreadful woman.”

    “I see. I thought that might be the case.”

    “Thought you might take him on yourself,” he murmured vaguely, gazing at the stream.

    “I have considered it. But my Uncle George has been more or less filling the rôle for years, and I do not think a new man would fit in very well. In any case, I should prefer it if Lance were to come and learn the ropes from Uncle George.”

    “Does he want to?” he said vaguely.

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath. “I don’t give a damn if he does or not. At least he will be safe there from predatory bitches of, if you will forgive my putting it so, either sex.”

    “Didn’t like the sound of that Loomis fellow,” agreed Mr Buffitt mildly.

    “Quite,” he said tightly. “Though it is the Princesse P. who has been making veiled threats about getting him back.”

    “What could she do?” mused Mr Buffitt. “Send a man to kidnap the boy? Or merely a messenger with an offer too tempting to refuse? Mind you, she could send as well to Cumberland as here.”

    “Yes, but let me assure you, in Cumberland no messenger of hers would ever get past my lodgekeeper!” said Mr Beresford, starting off merely firm but ending up very loud.

    “No? Now, the best plan would be,” he said musingly, “to put up at the village inn and wait until the boy came down for a drink—”

    “Buffitt, this is your son we are talking about, here!” shouted Jack.

    “Mm? Oh—yes, well, one’s mind cannot help working it out, y’know. Dare say you could make sure someone always kept an eye on him, though.”

    “Quite.”

    “Though personally I should have thought Paul’s situation was more urgent.”

    “Yes. I, on the other hand, have more direct responsibility for Lance’s situation.”

    Mr Buffitt scratched the thick thatch of silvered dark curls. “Don’t see that. No-one could have anticipated the precise sequence of events, unless I’ve got it wrong.”

    “No. But I could have prevented it by keeping a closer eye on him.”

    “That’s true,” he said mildly. “Well, he likes horses and so forth, dare say he may quite enjoy being trained up to be an agent.”

    Jack hesitated. Then he said: “In the future, I should envisage he might care to become a gentleman-farmer: there is a pleasant house with considerable land attached that he might have. But he is too young for that as yet.”

    “Very good of you,” said Mr Buffitt vaguely, staring at the stream.

    Jack sighed. He got up slowly.

    “Though he’s quite safe here, really,” he said vaguely.

    “He is not absolutely safe, and he does not have a future,” replied Jack very carefully.

    “No? Well, dare say you’re right. Pity to waste that mechanical bent of his, though. Mind you, he’s not as bright as Bertie.”

    “He has shown no signs of any mechanical bent in my presence, but should he have one, it can be put to good use on the place,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Mm? Yes. What would you say to a steam-driven barge to ferry vehicles across your mere?”

    “I would say stuff and nonsense,” said Mr Beresford coldly.

    “Pity—pity. Quite sure you would not like to give me a draught horse?”

    “Positive.”

    Mr Buffitt sighed resignedly.

    “If you have no objections, sir, I shall put the scheme to Lance,” he said stiffly.

    “Mm? Oh, go ahead, dear fellow, go ahead,” he said absently. “Now, what would you calculate to be the maximum weight of a large chain, let us say half a mile in length, capable of drawing a series of linked barges, taking into consideration the principle of flotation?”

    “I have no idea, but I would calculate its price to be a pretty penny,” said Mr Beresford coldly. “Do you intend sitting there in those wet clothes?”

    “What? Oh—no, no. Of course not.” He rose, picked up a large mallet, and stepping into the stream again, began determinedly hammering at some part of his contraption.

    Grimly Mr Beresford retreated.

    After quite some time Mr Buffitt looked up and said: “What the Devil is that fellow’s name? Oh, well, no matter; dare say Rose will know.” Forthwith falling to on his contraption again.

    The road, or rather track, which Lance had indicated led straight to the tall iron gates of what must be Monday Hall. Since they stood hospitably wide, Mr Valentine entered. The drive was winding: well kept, the gravel in excellent condition. It was edged with shallow sloping banks on which stood some fine old oaks, now in full leaf. Nodding approvingly at this handsome and very English sight, Mr Valentine strolled on without hurry. Round a bend the landscape suddenly featured figures: a black spaniel, bearing even from a distance the appearance of a dog who was disconcerted and upset by its accompanying human’s behaviour, and a girl in a print dress. The girl was seated on the grass under one of the oaks with her head in her hands. The dog was anxiously pawing and licking at her feet.

    “Bawling,” said Mr Valentine under his breath.

    His subsequent actions would very much have surprised those of his acquaintance, such as Jimmy Hattersby-Lough or Shirley Rowbotham, who fancied they knew him. But perhaps Jack Beresford, who had come to know him rather better over these last few weeks, would not have been entirely surprised. He did not turn tail, or seek an alternative route, but walked on steadily towards the scene.

    “’Afternoon,” he said firmly.

    The dog, possibly recognising the voice of sanity, deserted the girl and came panting eagerly up to him. “Good fellow: down,” said Mr Valentine firmly. “Think perhaps you must be Miss Anne Buffitt?” he said to the sobbing, golden-haired figure.

    Anne looked up, her jaw sagging at the sight of yet another attractive male stranger in their obscure rural district. “Who are you?” she gasped, shrinking back against the trunk of the big old tree.

    “Lucius Valentine. Close friend of your cousin Jack Beresford,” he said succinctly.

    “Is he here?” she gasped.

    “Yes. At your parents’ place. That is, if you are Miss Anne?”

    Anne got shakily to her feet, scrubbing the back of her hand across her eyes. “Yes.”

    “I’ve brought a little note from your mother for Mrs Hilton. Care to show me the way?”

    “Um—yes.” She began to descend the slope. Mr Valentine held out his hand to assist her.

    “Oh—thank you!” said Anne on a gasp.

    He looked at her with interest. Perhaps a bit shorter than the sister; same rather square face, but the wide eyes not that odd pale amber with a greenish look to it, but a delightful cornflower blue. At the moment the eyelids were very red and the whole face was blotched and puffy, but it was still quite evident that if washed, dressed, and appropriately coiffed, Miss Anne Buffitt would be a little beauty. Calmly he handed her a pristine handkerchief.

    “Thank you,” said Anne meekly, blowing her nose hard. “Is Mr Beresford going to help Paul, then?”

    “Take my arm, Miss Anne. –Well, doing his best. Writing to all the fellows he knows what might be in need of an agent. –I’ve just thought of another one: Sir Ceddie Rowbotham. Remind me,” he enjoined her.

    “Um—yes, sir!” squeaked Anne in a bewildered voice. “Has Peg come?”

    “No, your mother wrote her not to. No point in going down to London for the Season if y’dash back to Lincolnshire halfway through it, is there?”

    “No, I suppose not,” she agreed on a doleful note.

    Mr Valentine looked down at her thoughtfully. “So, you went and fell for a dashed Bon-Dutton, did you, Mss Anne?”

    “No, I did not!” she cried, going very pink.

    “Oh? That was the impression we had.”

    “No! He is a pleasant boy, and—and all I did was accompany him on a few country strolls!”

    “Thought that cow of a woman Frederick B.-D. married ordered you to sheer off?”

    “Y— Um, do you mean Mr Bon-Dutton’s mother, sir?” she faltered. “Yes. Wuh-well, she ordered Maria, and—and I should have told him to go away, and it is all my fault!” The tears threatened again.

    “It was an unreasonable request, and Lady Frederick is a gazetted harpy,” said Mr Valentine thoughtfully.

    Anne looked up at him uncertainly, blinking. “Yuh-yes.”

    “Nevertheless, you did very wrong to go against her express wishes,” he said calmly.

    “I know,” she whispered, hanging her head.

    “Glad to hear it. I won’t ask what made you do it, because I’ve got a fair idea. The younger B.-D.s are usually very pretty.”

    Anne bit her lip. “Mm. I suppose he was. And—and very charming.”

    “Aye. What was all this about another fellow?” he said casually.

    Not pausing to ask herself why this perfect stranger in the extremely elegant country wear was interrogating her, Anne replied glumly: “Percy Goodall. He is Sir Horace’s nephew. It was ages ago: I was only fifteen. Sir Horace was very angry and sent him home. He told Ma he had no objections to me personally but that Mr Goodall’s parents had plans for him.”

    “Mm. And how old was this Mr Goodall?”

    “Oh, quite old. At least nineteen,” said Anne earnestly.

    Mr Valentine’s lips twitched but he refrained from laughing. “So, who’s this fellow, eh?” he said, nodding down at the now happily panting black spaniel.

    “That’s Blackie, sir: he is Sir Horace’s dog, and he is very old, but he still likes to go on gentle walks.”

    “Aye. Don’t like it when the walker dissolves into tears, though, by the look of him.”

    “Um—no,” she said remorsefully. “I’m afraid he was upset. He is very—very comforting, however.”

    Mr Valentine smiled suddenly, and patted the hot little hand in his arm. “Of course he is. Nothing like a dog for company, is there? I’ve got a dear old fellow of my own, at home. Your little sister was asking me about him, just now.”

    “Lilibet?” she squeaked, goggling at him.

    Reflecting that those cornflower eyes were really something, Mr Valentine replied easily: “That’s right; the little horror what’s about eight. Lance seems to think she’s trying to get his fellow off him, hey?”

    “Timothée: yes. She has been horridly jealous ever since Lance brought him home. Nobody can quite make out why, for there was no suggestion that she should ever have a dog, and it’s not as if the other children have been favoured and she not. But I suppose,” said Anne with a sudden smile, “jealousy is not logical!”

    “No, indeed!” he agreed, twinkling at her. “Anyone thought of getting her a kitten, perhaps?”

    “Maria and I did discuss it, but Timothée chases anything that moves, I’m afraid. It would not do.”

    “No, absolutely not. Jack mentioned something about a bantam?” he said with a smile in his voice.

    Anne shuddered, and hugged his arm tightly. Silently Mr Valentine owned to himself that the sensation was far from unpleasant. “Oh, it was the most dreadful thing, sir!” She proceeded to tell him all about it, with great relish. Val watched in her in some amusement, reflecting that she was charming, if very unsophisticated, and that in a way it was a pity that she was so very young, and that she and Peg together would be guaranteed to knock the pretensions of the London débutantes into a cocked hat… When he found himself wondering what Pa and Ma would think of her he blinked, and took a deep breath.

    “Er—this the Hall, then?” he said as they were now facing a handsome stone house.

    Anne agreed it was, and happily conducted him inside.

    Mrs Hilton did not quite fall on his neck at the news that her Cousin Beresford had come—but pretty near. Uneasily Val wondered if he should drop a hint that Jack did not intend offering her husband a position at Beresford Hall. But it wouldn’t do: not his place to say any such thing. Mr Hilton himself coming in with Sir Horace, he acknowledged introductions easily, and, since it had been a fair walk from the Buffitts’, accepted the old boy’s offer of refreshment. Ale: Mrs Hilton’s suggestion of tea being vetoed with scorn, and even her well-mannered young husband joining them eagerly in the ale. Miss Anne wondered wistfully if there might be any lemonade, but as there was not, kept her sister company in the tea.

    After which Sir Horace said unaffectedly to her: “Anything decent for the fellows to eat down at your place?”

    She went very pink. “Cook makes excellent sorrel soup, sir. I think Ma was planning—”

    “Rubbish! Best have the lot of ’em up here, hey? Give you a decent joint of mutton!” he beamed.

    “Y— All of us?” squeaked Anne.

    “Why not? The brats can go in the nursery with Maria’s two.”

    “Um, the boys as well?” she said in a hollow voice.

    “Not them! Capable of sitting up and eating their mutton like reasonable human beings, ain’t they? Aye, that’ll be the best. –ALFRED!” he suddenly bellowed.

    A footman shot in and was given loud orders, in the course of which it dawned on Mr Valentine that the old boy was expecting Jack and himself to stay. “I say, it’s terribly decent of you, sir, but—”

    “Rubbish! No question! Why, Beresford and I had a splendid time, last time he was up here!” he said, rubbing his hands.

    “Jack mentioned your very generous hospitality, sir, but—”

    His polite objections were firmly overborne, the footman ordered to take the tray, and Mrs Hilton and the blushing Miss Anne ordered to get into their best gowns.

    “Taking little thing. Wouldn’t do, however, if the damned fellow’s expecting the son to marry money,” rumbled Sir Horace as the sisters exited.

    “No, quite,” said Mr Valentine politely.

    The old man gave him a hard look. “None of them girls will have a penny, y’know.”

    “Yes: Jack has put me fully in the picture, sir,” he said tranquilly.

    Sir Horace snorted, but quite mildly. And, hospitably pouring Madeira without asking if either Mr Valentine or Mr Hilton wished for it, proceeded to relate, with considerable vigour, the exact and full story of his attempts to get Sir Frederick Bon-Dutton to take Paul back into the employ of Chelford Place. Val could see that the poor young fellow was writhing with embarrassment, but there was nothing for it: the two of them had to sit through it.

    The Buffitts at dinner presented fully as odd a picture as Mr Valentine had envisaged. The two boys, aged about fourteen and sixteen, could be discounted: mere hobbledehoys in short jackets. The older Buffitts were, more or less, illustrations of genteel evening wear over the last three decades. Mr Buffitt presented a strikingly handsome picture that dated from around the year ’00. Certainly the black jacket appeared to have been created then and not worn since; and Val could just recall his grandfather wearing satin knee-breeches of that very style. The pink brocade waistcoat was of similar vintage but in much worse repair. Add to that very limp points to his shirt collar, and a travesty of neckcloth, and he could not have been said to have been an entirely elegant picture of gentleman’s wear of the year Dot. There was no sign of a fob or watch chain. Popped: quite. Mrs Buffitt had bloomed, illustrating à la modality of perhaps ten years back. The gown of black silk was nonetheless very flattering to the figure that was very like her daughters’. She was not wearing any jewellery at all, and Mr Valentine could not but draw the obvious conclusion. Lance, by contrast, did not illustrate anything that had ever fallen within the definition of genteel. The appalling coat and pantaloons were those he had worn in London, so at least Jack’s efforts to prevent him chucking his gelt away on an evening suit seemed to have been successful. Respectability of the bourgeois kind was represented by the Hiltons: Paul Hilton in an evening suit of provincial cut and a neckcloth that was entirely modest, and Maria in dove-grey silk. Before meeting Maria Hilton Mr Valentine had had a notion, which he had now conceded was ill-conceived, that she must be the plain one of the family. She was no such thing: on the contrary, extremely pretty. Abundant fair curls, not as golden as her sisters’ but more the shade, he fancied, that their mother’s must have been in her youth, huge blue eyes of the forget-me-not variety, and a sweet, plump-cheeked, smiling face. Hilton, in short, could count himself lucky in his wife, if not in his wife’s relatives. The colour of her gown, the perceptive Mr Valentine reflected, had probably been chosen with the idea of propitiating all the fubsy dames of the neighbourhood: it was certainly appropriately matronly. But the effect on the plumply pretty Maria Hilton was far from prim, the more so as she had pinned a couple of pale pink rosebuds to the bosom. Delicious as she was, however, she paled into insignificance next the spectacle of Miss Anne Buffitt in borrowed plumage. Certainly she still needed the attentions of a good lady’s-maid, no question. But only the most captious could truly object to the spectacle of the riotous golden curls with a blue ribbon threaded through ’em. The gown was pale blue silk and it was pretty clear that the generous-hearted Maria had let her little sister wear her prettiest dress. It was, in fact, somewhat over-elaborate, with a multiplicity of little tucks, frills, bows and rosettes of the stuff, whether on the tiny bodice, the puff sleeves, or the wide flounce at the hem, and the percipient Mr Valentine reflected, swallowing a smile, that the dressmaker was probably Mrs Hilton herself. Pace the nephew what had been sent packing, old Sir Horace was positively fulsome in his praise, and who could blame him? Miss Anne Buffitt was, in fact, a perfect little peach.

    “The gals don’t play an instrument,” explained Sir Horace, at long last allowing the gentlemen to escape from the port, brandy and hunting tales, and rejoin the ladies. “Just as well, the spinet ain’t been tuned this age. But Maria will sing us a few little songs, if you ask her. Signs quite prettily. Hilton has been encouraging her: quite a decent voice himself.”

    After considerable urging the Hiltons sang a couple of little duets. Sir Horace hummed and tapped his foot throughout, so perhaps it was not surprising that Mr Hilton then firmly refused to give an encore, and suggested that spillikins might be amusing.

    “Your sister Peg does not consider spillikins to have sufficient of an intellectual challenge,” noted Mr Beresford, as Maria hurried to get the spillikins.

    “I know: Pa hates spillikins, too,” agreed Anne with a cautious glance at him. –Mr Buffitt had ignored the singing and immersed himself in a book.

    “And you, Miss Anne?” said Mr Valentine from her other side.

    Anne smiled at him. “Well, I am not near so clever as Peg, and I really enjoy the game, now that Paul has taught us the tricks of it! I was terrible at first, but now I know to look really hard before I touch!”

    “Simple mechanics,” said Mr Buffitt unexpectedly into his book.

    Anne jumped, and gasped. “Why, yes, of course it is, Pa! I wonder that you don’t care to play, in that case.”

    “Boring,” said Mr Buffitt into the book.

    Anne was very pink. She smiled desperately at Mr Valentine.

    “Well, these clever people always think that, Miss Anne, but for myself, always enjoy the game,” he said with his easy smile. “Shall we?” Eagerly Anne got up to join Paul, Maria, Rose and Lance at the spillikins table. “Jack?” said Mr Valentine.

    “Er—well, perhaps Sir Horace and Mr Buffitt might prefer cards?” he murmured. “Écarté, perhaps?

    “Good Lord, Beresford! Not playin’ cards with him! The fellow gets bored, and cheats!” said the bluff baronet disapprovingly.

    “Yes,” agreed Mr Buffitt into his book, unmoved.

    “Come along, dear boy: hand of piquet!” beamed Sir Horace.

    Resignedly Mr Beresford sat down to let Sir Horace win at piquet.

    … “Well?” he said with a twinkle in his eye, following Mr Valentine into his room as Sir Horace at long last released his three male house guests from the cigars and brandy that had followed, or possibly celebrated, the departure of the Damian Buffitts to their own home.

    Val eyed him cautiously. “Well, what?”

    Jack’s shoulders shook slightly. “Shall you take her off damned Buffitt’s hands, given that she most definitely appears likely to admire that book of etiquette of yours, Val? Or leave her to the old buffer?”

    “That ain’t funny,” he said grimly.

    “Little peach, ain’t she?” he said slyly.

    Mr Valentine glared. “Very well, she is. Why don’t I take her off his hands while you take Miss Buffitt, then, Jack?”

    Mr Beresford merely gave that shrug, and wandered out.

    Miss Sissy and the travelling coach, not to mention Moffat and Goodwin, arriving safely the following day, and being duly accommodated at Monday Hall by the generous Sir Horace, all was in train for the safe transportation of Miss Anne Buffitt to London and the transformation of Mr Lancelot Buffitt into trainee agent for Beresford Hall. Or would have been, but for the intervention of Damian Buffitt.

    “Wanted a word,” he said, as Mr Beresford, summoned from Monday Hall by the not sufficiently awed George Buffitt, duly presented himself at the contraption.

    “I say, Pa! Cousin Jack is used to hunt with the Quorn, did you know that?”

    Mr Buffitt looked down the strikingly handsome straight nose. “A pointless occupation, George, having as its result the exhaustion and quite possibly crippling of a noble and long-suffering quadruped, the wanton destruction of a small furred mammal which at most may account for one domestic hen in a six-month, and the gratification of the blood-lust of the so-called upper classes. But perhaps you would care to offer some justification for the so-called sport?”

    “Sir Horace says foxes are pests,” said George sulkily.

    “And has not lost a hen from his run since we came to the district,” he said blightingly.

    “It was not I who introduced the topic of hunting, I do assure you,” murmured Mr Beresford.

    “I dare say. –George has better things with which to occupy his mind, but lacks both the inclination and the aptitude,” he explained.

    “I do NOT!” shouted George, turning crimson.

    “You might go and finish that Latin translation.”

    “It is too hard, and just because Lance can do it—”

    “Lance and Bertie.”

    “I HATE Latin!” shouted George.

    “I know,” said Mr Buffitt mildly. “Mathematics, then?”

    “I’ve FINISHED it all!”

    “Ask Lance to set you some more.”

    “Mathematics will never be of any use to me, for YOU will not let any of us take up a career in the forces where we might apply it!” he shouted.

    “I don’t think this idea of a career, so-called, in the forces ever so much as entered his head before you appeared in the district,” said Mr Buffitt.

    “It DID!” shouted George.

    “I believe that the occasional ranking officer may get the chance to navigate his regiment over the Hindoo Kush, or such-like, but don’t think there’s much real chance of using one's mathematics, apart from that, is there?” said Mr Beresford.

    “Sir, I thought you, at least, were on my side!” he spluttered.

    “I don’t think I am on anyone’s side, precisely, George. I can see there are disadvantages as well as advantages to the Army life. If you wish to convince your father of anything, you would do well to admit that there are generally at least two sides to any question.”

    “Yes. You might write me an essay on the point,” said Mr Buffitt, not seeming at all disturbed by the topic, the shouting, or George’s contumacy.

    “In Latin?” he said suspiciously.

    “Heaven forbid. English,” said Mr Buffitt mildly.

    Not saying that he would do so, George retreated slowly, scowling.

    “You’re rather hard on that lad, aren’t you?” said Mr Beresford without emphasis.

    “He irritates me. I tell myself it is not his fault that he is not as bright as the others—nevertheless,” said Damian Buffitt with a shrug, “he irritates me.”

    “Then, dare I say it, why not let him join the Army?” replied Mr Beresford, still unemphatic.

    “The fact that I do not particularly care for him, and have almost nothing in common with him, does not mean that I should abrogate my duty as a father, does it?” he said mildly.

    Jack Beresford winced slightly, but conceded: “No. But given that he must be eating you out of house and home, I’d be thinking of something to do with him, in your shoes.”

    “I know you would. That’s more or less what I want to speak to you about.”

    “Oh?” he said cautiously.

    “Yes. I don’t like this idea of taking Anne off to London. She’s too young.”

    “I would agree with you, were it not for the fact that she has manifestly not managed to keep out of mischief here. At least in London the girls will have my Aunt Sissy’s eye upon them.”

    “Peg writes that the damned parties keep her out till all hours.”

    “Er—yes. Not unreasonably so, I think.”

    “Who is this Stamforth woman?” he said irritably.

    “She is a friend of my cousins, Jack and Charlotte Laidlaw. They are Mrs Buffitt’s cousins, too, of course.”

    “That is not, as I think you are very well aware, an answer, Beresford,” he said drily.

    “I beg your pardon. Lady Stamforth is Portuguese on her father’s side: the family name is Baldaya. A very respected family indeed. Her mother was a Jeffreys: the Sussex branch of Lord Keywes’s family. Keywes is my brother-in-law.”

    “Nancy Jeffreys. I remember her very well,” stated Damian Buffitt calmly.

    Jack Beresford had to swallow. Certainly the notorious Nancy Jeffreys dated from the year Dot: he should have been warned by the vintage of damned Buffitt’s dress clothes. “Oh. Well, she is generally seen as a fly in the ointment by the high-sticklers, true. But Lady Stamforth is not in the least like her mother. I suppose any statement that Lord Stamforth, who is the head of the Vane family, would not have married her had she resembled her, will not carry weight?”

    “Not if she’s as attractive as Nancy was, no,” he said reflectively.

    “I can assure you that Lady Stamforth is taking Peg only to the most respectable of functions and introducing her only to the most respectable of persons.”

    Damian Buffitt looked at him thoughtfully.

    “Very well,” said Mr Beresford crossly, flushing up, “perhaps I should have consigned Lance, also, to her care!”

    “At least you are not particularly slow in the uptake,” he admitted. “Well, from Peg’s accounts of them they certainly sound respectable, if damned boring. But that is not my point. I thought the idea was that if the girl were sent off to London she would contract an eligible engagement?”

    “Er—yes. Well, that generally is the idea.”

    “Rose keeps telling me what she could do for the younger ones, in the case she did so. This is supposed to justify the expense,” he explained blandly.

    “That is generally the idea, also, sir,” said Jack with a wary look in his eye.

    “Quite. Well, I could ask several questions, not the least of which would be, whose expense? I believe your mother is still abroad?”

    “If you wish to know—”

    “No,” he said, holding up an elegant and extremely grimy hand. “I don’t, thank you, as there is no way I could ever afford to repay you. What I should like to know is, where is this eligible fellow?”

    “What?” said Jack limply.

    “Peg’s eligible fellow. The last she wrote, there was some elderly fellow with a big red nose who seems to have made a fortune in Mesopotamia by what even a chit of a girl like Peg can see must have been damned dubious means, and some damned old Admiral who she admits herself has been paying her attentions that do not seem to be serious, plus some idiotic young sprig whose mother gives damned literary saloons. Footling,” said Mr Buffitt coldly.

    “Y— Uh, Bobby Cantrell-Sprague, or his mother’s salons?”

    “Both. Also what passes for literature at them, judging from Peg’s accounts. Is that all? What about this Valentine fellow?”

    “I am afraid Val is not a suitor for Peg’s hand, sir.”

    “Just as well. Fellow’s next thing to an imbecile.”

    “He may not be the most intellectual fellow in the world, but he is certainly one of the best-hearted men I know, and a damned good friend!” said Mr Beresford hotly.

    “I see.” He eyed him thoughtfully. “Rose’s declared position is that we owe you more than something for putting up with the girl. Not to mention housing, feeding, and, reading between the lines, clothing her.”

    “I could hardly do less than carry out my mother’s intentions,” he said colourlessly.

    “Yes, you could. A damned sight less,” replied Mr Buffitt simply. “Of course, Rose believes she can pull the wool over my eyes at any time she pleases. Well, I let her believe it: it’s less bother. But I finally got it out of Lance.” He fixed him with a horridly clear hazel eye.

    “What?” said Jack feebly.

    “That you assaulted my daughter in Northampton,” he said coldly.

    “It was just a kiss. I took her for a farm lass,” he said feebly. “I do apologise, sir. And I apologised to Miss Buffitt at the time.”

    “Yes, well, Lance is a spineless little worm, I’ve always seen that,” said Damian Buffitt dispassionately. “Puts me in mind of my brother Ted. Same optimistic temperament, same refusal to recognise his own faults, and in spite of a certain bravado in the matter of taking unsuitable jumps on half-fit horses, or in Lance’s case riding that damned bull of Briggs’s, the same lack of real courage. What you would no doubt call moral courage,” he said, eyeing him with, this time, unconcealed dislike.

    “Only if in a tautologous mood,” returned Mr Beresford grimly.

    “Oh, quite. Well, I’m too old to call you out, and in any case was never much of a swordsman. But I fancy the right is all on my side in this case?” he said frostily.

    “Sir, I assure you it would never have happened had I had the least idea who your daughter was!”

    “While that is possibly true, it is certainly beside the point. You can take it that I am calling you to account, Beresford.”

    Mr Beresford took a deep breath and reminded himself grimly that the whole situation was absurd. Buffitt was the least responsible of fathers: he had let his daughter jaunt over half the country on a waggon, he had not assured himself that she was even expected in London—

    “I am aware of a certain obligation towards your daughter, sir, and I would like to make amends for the insult unwittingly offered her by offering you any assistance I may with regard to Lance, Hilton, Anne, and any other of your family.”

    “I dare say. That is not the point at issue. We sent Peg off to London in the expectation of her forming an eligible connection, and you appointed yourself guardian with the responsibility of helping her to do so.”

    “Forgive me, Buffitt,” said Jack, the nostrils flickering, “but finding an eligible connection for a girl whose family cannot even afford her bride-clothes is not an easy task.”

    “Nevertheless you appointed yourself, unasked, to undertake it.”

    “I—” Mr Beresford broke off. It was pointless to say that Aunt Sissy and Cousin Charlotte Laidlaw between them had foisted the girl upon him. He had, after all, been free to refuse to let them do any such thing. “That is quite correct in essence. I apologise for my lack of success,” he said grimly.

    “No, well, you don’t appear to take the point. You may find Peg a husband by the end of the damned Season, or make an offer yourself,” said Damian Buffitt coldly.

    “You daughter, sir, was not in any way compromised by me,” said Jack between his teeth.

    “Yes, she was. Put it like this. I’m damned if I know why you want to help Lance, unless your conscience is nagging you over the company you let him keep in London; but let’s take it you do. You may take him off to Cumberland and turn him into an agent, or let him run a farm for you, as you like, but if you don’t meet my conditions, I shall very speedily order him home again.”

    “Look, this is illogical!” he said on a desperate note.

    “I think not. I admit I have my faults,” said Damian Buffitt, quite in the grand manner, “but I believe you will find that a lack of logic is not one of them.”

    “You cannot seriously mean to say that I may keep Lance on the condition I take his sister as well!”

    “On that condition, or on the condition that you find another eligible parti for her, yes. I think that was all. –Oh, no: the question of Anne.”

    “Yes?” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.

    “That’s the same condition. I concede it is not worth the fuss if she remains at home. She will make all our lives a misery, now that she has been told of the treat.”

    Mr Beresford was very red. “I apologise, sir: it was remiss of me not to broach the matter with you first.”

    “Yes, it was,” he agreed calmly. “You may take her to London. But she will have to come home this summer and may not go to you or your mother next year, unless you meet my condition.”

    “Deprive poor little Anne of a proper Season because I don’t offer for the sister?” he cried indignantly. “That is illogical, if you like!”

    “Perhaps,” said Damian Buffitt calmly. “But that is what I have decided. Unless you wish to marry Anne instead? I suppose I could stretch a point, in the case you agreed to dower Peg.”

    “Marry Anne? No, I do not so wish!” he choked.

    “There you are, then.”

    Belatedly—very belatedly—Mr Beresford realized that he had made the fatal error of arguing with Buffitt on the fellow’s own terms. Oh, God. “Sir, I cannot conceive that Miss Buffitt would wish to receive a proposal upon such conditions,” he said stiffly.

    “Too late,” said Damian Buffitt calmly. “I’ve already written to tell her that she must. And that unless my conditions are met, she comes home directly the Season is over and forgets about all this damned London nonsense.”

    Mr Beresford was now very white. “You cannot have written anything so cruel!” he gasped.

    “Cruel? That is illogical, if you like. It would be far crueller to conceal the facts of the case from her. Though I am aware that that is the usual tack taken by parents in such a case. I, however, have never been of the opinion that because a creature is young, it is necessarily unreasoning. And Peg is quite bright. A pity that she was not a boy, really. Though an intelligent woman may still make something of herself, with application.”

    “Have you posted the letter?” said Mr Beresford tensely.

    “What? Oh—yes, of course. Gave it to Sir Horace to put with his letters a few nights back, when we were dining with him.”

    Mr Beresford found his hands were trembling. He clenched his fists tightly. “Miss Buffitt is a young woman of considerable pride.”

    “Pride is not an emotion which sits well in a reasoning being. Though I quite agree with you, she is.”

    “She will never accept an offer from me under such terms!” he shouted. “And for all your intelligence, Buffitt, you must be blind not to see it!” He paused. “By God,” he said numbly, staring at him. “You do see it, don’t you? You wrote it deliberately to ensure she would reject me!”

    Mr Buffitt looked at the excellent country clothes, at the clenched fists, and at the flared nostrils with equal dislike. “Did I? Well, I could well have done. As I say, you are not particularly slow in the uptake. Or I could merely have intended to indicate to Peg where her duty lies. However, my motives are irrelevant to what must be your course of action.”

    “You will not dissuade me from helping your son and younger daughter as I see fit,” he said grimly.

    “I don’t think I wish to dissuade you from assisting Lance. Although he was quite a satisfactory assistant, he has not the sort of mind which delights in formulating new ideas. I dare say the country life will suit him. And Anne is as silly as any girl of her age: she will enjoy London, and I dare say will be none the worse for the experience.”

    Mr Beresford breathed heavily but managed to say: “Then I may take them?”

    “Oh, certainly; dear fellow,” he said in his vaguest tones. “With my blessing.”

    “Thank you,” said Mr Beresford in a choked voice.

    Waving his hand in gracious dismissal, Mr Buffitt splashed back into the stream.

    And Mr Beresford, tight-lipped and furious, returned to Monday Hall.

Next chapter:

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