diplomacy and his own sweet persuasiveness; once, when both these means failed, he had even beggared himself for the time of all but his mare Cassandra. Greatly he preferred the first manner of settling all difficulties as they arose, but obviously he could not fight Sir Henry Verney because there was no dinner for him.
"Take me to the larder," he said after a few moments' desperate thought, "and let us trust that he may prove more of a gourmand than an epicure."
Whatever Will's forlorn scheme might be, the contents of the larder appeared to meet his requirements fully. With a decision that bore a suspicion of indifference he picked out one hopeless thing after another: the bones of a boiled fowl, a fragment of game pasty, the remnant of a mighty sirloin and a noble selection of condiments composed of every herb and spice which he could lay his hands upon. Over this unpromising collation he gave the half-laughing, half-crying but wholly docile landlady certain instructions in the art of simple cookery, drilled Mary for her unexacting part, and with a slightly more imposing swagger of hat and spur than he usually carried, marched into the large room where Sir Henry Verney and his lady awaited their dinner.
Inside, he swept off his hat and bowed with the courteous deference of a man who would crave permission to intrude where he has every right to be. Lady Verney was idly turning over the pages of a month old Register with no pretence of interest, and glancing at the gallant figure in the doorway bowed slightly in response; Sir Henry, who was dozing before the fire, pulled himself up in his chair and said ungraciously, "I understood, sir, that we were to enjoy the privilege of a private sitting-room."
"I am entirely at your command, sir," replied Will, smiling unabashed and advancing into the room. "It
