“How’s the show going?”

“It’s a riot.  They think it will run two years in London.  As far as I can make it out you don’t call it a success in London unless you can take your grandchildren to see the thousandth night.”

“That’s splendid.  And how is everybody?  All right?”

“Fine.  That fellow Gray is still hanging round Babe.  It beats me what she sees in him.  Anybody but an infant could see the man wasn’t on the level.  Well, I don’t blame you for quitting London, George.  This sort of thing is worth fifty Londons.”

The procession had reached one of the upper rooms, and they were looking down from a window that commanded a sweep of miles of the countryside, rolling and green and wooded.  Far away beyond the last covert Belpher Bay gleamed like a streak of silver.  Billie Dore gave a little sigh.

“There’s nothing like this in the world.  I’d like to stand here for the rest of my life, just lapping it up.”

“I will call your attention,” boomed Keggs at their elbow, “to this window, known in the fem’ly tredition as Leonard’s Leap.  It was in the year seventeen ’undred and eighty-seven that Lord Leonard Forth, eldest son of ’Is Grace the Dook of Lochlane, ’urled ’imself out of this window in order to avoid compromising the beautiful Countess of Marshmoreton, with oom ’e is related to ’ave ’ad a ninnocent romance.  Surprised at an advanced hour by ’is lordship the earl in ’er ladyship’s boudoir, as this room then was, ’e leaped through the open window into the boughs of the cedar tree which stands below, and was fortunate enough to escape with a few ’armless contusions.”

A murmur of admiration greeted the recital of the ready tact of this eighteenth-century Steve Brodie.

“There,” said Billie enthusiastically, “that’s exactly what I mean about this country.  It’s just a mass of Leonard’s Leaps and things.  I’d like to settle down in this sort of place and spend the rest of my life milking cows and taking forkfuls of soup to the deserving villagers.”

“We will now,” said Keggs, herding the mob with a gesture, “proceed to the Amber Drawing-Room, containing some Gobelin Tapestries ’ighly spoken of by connoozers.”

The obedient mob began to drift out in his wake.

“What do you say, George,” asked Billie in an undertone, “if we side-step the Amber Drawing-Room?  I’m wild to get into that garden.  There’s a man working among those roses.  Maybe he would show us round.”

George followed her pointing finger.  Just below them a sturdy, brown-faced man in corduroys was pausing to light a stubby pipe.

“Just as you like.”

They made their way down the great staircase.  The voice of Keggs, saying complimentary things about the Gobelin Tapestry, came to their ears like the roll of distant drums.  They wandered out towards the rose-garden.  The man in corduroys had lit his pipe and was bending once more to his task.