“Eh?” said Lord Marshmoreton.  His mind had been far away, dealing with green flies.

“I was speaking about that man Maud met when she was staying with Brenda in Wales.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Oh, yes!” echoed Lady Caroline, annoyed.  “Is that the only comment you can find to make?  Your only daughter becomes infatuated with a perfect stranger—­a man we have never seen—­of whom we know nothing, not even his name—­nothing except that he is an American and hasn’t a penny—­Maud admitted that.  And all you say is ’Oh, yes’!”

“But it’s all over now, isn’t it?  I understood the dashed affair was all over.”

“We hope so.  But I should feel safer if Maud were engaged to Reggie.  I do think you might take the trouble to speak to Maud.”

“Speak to her?  I do speak to her.”  Lord Marshmoreton’s brain moved slowly when he was pre-occupied with his roses.  “We’re on excellent terms.”

Lady Caroline frowned impatiently.  Hers was an alert, vigorous mind, bright and strong like a steel trap, and her brother’s vagueness and growing habit of inattention irritated her.

“I mean to speak to her about becoming engaged to Reggie.  You are her father.  Surely you can at least try to persuade her.”

“Can’t coerce a girl.”

“I never suggested that you should coerce her, as you put it.  I merely meant that you could point out to her, as a father, where her duty and happiness lie.”

“Drink this!” cried his lordship with sudden fury, spraying his can over the nearest bush, and addressing his remark to the invisible thrips.  He had forgotten Lady Caroline completely.  “Don’t stint yourselves!  There’s lots more!”

A girl came down the steps of the castle and made her way towards them.  She was a good-looking girl, with an air of quiet efficiency about her.  Her eyes were grey and whimsical.  Her head was uncovered, and the breeze stirred her dark hair.  She made a graceful picture in the morning sunshine, and Reggie Byng, sighting her from the terrace, wobbled in his tracks, turned pink, and lost the thread of his remarks.

The sudden appearance of Alice Faraday always affected him like that.

“I have copied out the notes you made last night, Lord Marshmoreton.  I typed two copies.”

Alice Faraday spoke in a quiet, respectful, yet subtly authoritative voice.  She was a girl of great character.  Previous employers of her services as secretary had found her a jewel.  To Lord Marshmoreton she was rapidly becoming a perfect incubus.  Their views on the relative importance of gardening and family histories did not coincide.  To him the history of the Marshmoreton family was the occupation of the idle hour:  she seemed to think that he ought to regard it as a life-work.  She was always coming and digging him out of the garden and dragging him back to what should have been a purely after-dinner task.  It was Lord Marshmoreton’s habit, when he awoke after one of his naps too late to resume work, to throw out some vague promise of “attending to it tomorrow”; but, he reflected bitterly, the girl ought to have tact and sense to understand that this was only polite persiflage, and not to be taken literally.