Edmund had disappeared from view. Sylvester pulled the window down again, thinking that he really ought to provide the brat with a livelier tutor than the Reverend Loftus Leyburn, the elderly and rather infirm cleric who was his—or, more accurately, his mother’s—chaplain. He had thought it a poor arrangement when Ianthe had begged Mr. Loftus to teach Edmund his first lessons, but not a matter of sufficient moment to make it necessary for him to provoke her by refusing to agree to the scheme. Now she was complaining that Edmund haunted the stables, and learned the most vulgar language there. What the devil did she expect? wondered Sylvester.

He turned from the window as the door opened, and his butler came in, followed by a young footman, who began to clear away the remains of a substantial breakfast.

“I’ll see Mr. Ossett and Pewsey at noon, Reeth,” Sylvester said. “Chale and Brough may bring their books in to me at the same time. I am going up to sit with her grace now. You might send down a message to Trent, warning him that I may want—” He paused, glancing towards the window. “No, never mind that! The light will be gone by four o’clock.”

“It seems a pity your grace should be cooped up in the office on such a fine day,” said Reeth suggestively.

“A great pity, but it can’t be helped.” He found that he had dropped his handkerchief, and that the footman had hurried to pick it up for him. He said, “Thank you”, as he took it, and accompanied the words with a slight smile. He had a singularly charming smile, and it ensured for him, no matter how exacting might be his demands, the uncomplaining exertions of his servants. He was perfectly well aware of that, just as he was aware of the value of the word of praise dropped at exactly the right moment; and he would have thought himself extremely stupid to withhold what cost him so little and was productive of such desirable results.