Madge performed her reverence, aware that she did it in clumsy style; his presence had startled her instincts and set them travelling.
'Coldish for the youngster,' he said.

'All well, Madge ?' 'Baby sleeps in the air, my lord,' she replied.

'My lady has gone to Croridge.' 'Sharp air for a child, isn't it ?' 'My lady teaches him to breathe with his mouth shut, like her father taught her when she was little.

Our baby never catches colds.' Madge displayed the child's face.
The father dropped a glance on it from the height of skies.
'Croridge, you said ?' 'Her uncle, Lord Levellier's.' 'You say, never catches cold ?' 'Not our baby, my lord.' Probably good management on the part of the mother.

But the wife's absence disappointed the husband strung to meet her, and an obtrusion of her practical motherhood blurred the prospect demanded by his present step.
'When do you expect her to return, Madge ?' 'Before nightfall, my lord.' 'She walks ?' 'Oh yes, my lady is fond of walking.' 'I suppose she could defend herself ?' 'My lady walks with a good stick.' Fleetwood weighed the chances; beheld her figure attacked, Amazonian.
'And tell me, my dear--Kit ?' I don't see more of Kit Ines.' 'What has the fellow done ?' 'I'd like him to let me know why he was dismissed.' 'Ah.