Mr. Fouracres had evidently been making his compact with the aid of strong liquor; he walked unsteadily, and in other ways betrayed imperfect command of himself.  Presently, at the tea-table, he revealed to his daughter the great opportunity which lay before him, and spoke of the absence from home it would necessitate.

‘Of course you’ll do as you like, father,’ replied Miss Fouracres, with her usual deliberation, and quite good-humouredly, ’but I think you’re going on a fool’s errand, and that I tell you plain.  If you’d just forget all about the Prince, and settle down quiet at the Pig and Whistle, it ’ud be a good deal better for you.’

The landlord regarded her with surprise and scorn.  It was the first time that his daughter had ventured to express herself so unmistakably.

‘The Pig and Whistle!’ he exclaimed.  ’A pothouse!  I who have kept an hotel and entertained His Royal Highness.  You speak like an ignorant woman.  Hold your tongue, and don’t dare to let me hear your voice again until to-morrow morning!’

Miss Fouracres obeyed him.  She was absolutely mute for the rest of the evening, save when obliged to exchange a word or two with rustic company or in the taproom.  Her features expressed uneasiness rather than mortification.

The next day, after an early breakfast, Mr. Fouracres set forth to the town of Woodbury.  He had the face of a man with a fixed idea, and looked more obstinate, more unintelligent than ever.  To his daughter he had spoken only a few cold words, and his last bidding to her was ’Take care of the pothouse!’ This treatment gave Miss Fouracres much pain, for she was a softhearted woman, and had never been anything but loyal and affectionate to her father all through his disastrous years.  Moreover, she liked the Pig and Whistle, and could not bear to hear it spoken of disdainfully.  Before the sound of the cart had died away she had to wipe moisture from her eyes, and at the moment when she was doing so Mr. Ruddiman came into the parlour.

‘Has Mr. Fouracres gone?’ asked the guest, with embarrassment.

‘Just gone, sir,’ replied the young woman, half turned away, and nervously fingering her chin.

‘I shouldn’t trouble about it if I were you, Miss Fouracres,’ said Mr. Ruddiman in a tone of friendly encouragement.  ’He’ll soon be back, he’ll soon be back, and you may depend upon it there’ll be no harm done.’

‘I hope so, sir, but I’ve an uneasy sort of feeling; I have indeed.’

’Don’t you worry, Miss Fouracres.  When the Prince has gone away he’ll be better.’

Miss Fouracres stood for a moment with eyes cast down, then, looking gravely at Mr. Ruddiman, said in a sorrowful voice—­

‘He calls the Pig and Whistle a pothouse.’

‘Ah, that was wrong of him!’ protested the other, no less earnestly.  ’A pothouse, indeed!  Why, it’s one of the nicest little inns you could find anywhere.  I’m getting fond of the Pig and Whistle.  A pothouse, indeed!  No, I call that shameful.’