Miss Fouracres had never yet learnt her acquaintance's
name.
'Splendid weather for the crops. I'll take a ginger-beer, if you please.'
'Indeed, that it is, sir. Ginger-beer; yes, sir.'
Then followed two or three minutes of silence. Miss Fouracres had resumed
her sewing, though not her seat. Mr. Ruddiman sipped his beverage more
gravely than usual.
'How is Mr. Fouracres?' he asked at length.
'I'm sorry to say, sir,' was the subdued reply, 'that he's thinking about
the Prince.'
'Oh, dear!' sighed Mr. Ruddiman, as one for whom this mysterious answer had
distressing significance. 'That's a great pity.'
'Yes, sir. And I'm sorry to say,' went on Miss Fouracres, in the same
confidential tone, 'that the Prince is coming here. I don't mean _here_,
sir, to the Pig and Whistle, but to Woodbury Manor. Father saw it in the
newspaper, and since then he's had no rest, day or night. He's sitting out
in the garden. I don't know whether you'd like to go and speak to him,
sir?'
'I will. Yes, I certainly will. But there's something I should like to ask
you about first, Miss Fouracres. I'm thinking of staying in this part of
the country through the holidays'--long ago he had made known his
position--'and it has struck me that perhaps I could lodge here.
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