"Good morning, Lord Stranleigh. You wish to see me?"
"Yes," drawled Stranleigh.
Wilson cast his eye over the group, which was now on its feet.
"Ah, Stiles, you've come to London, have you? What mutiny are you heading to-day?"
The man addressed as Stiles had been the speaker of the delegation. The advent of Wilson seemed to have tied his tongue. He made no answer.
"These people, my lord," said Wilson, "are pot-house politicians. You can't satisfy them. If you gave them the earth, they'd grumble."
"Well, Wilson, according to their talk, you've been giving them too much of the earth. They say some of the cottage floors are a foot below surface, and become ponds in wet weather."
"The cottage floors have always been that way, my lord. We didn't build them, you know. The rest of the tenants are perfectly satisfied."
Stranleigh looked at the group, expecting a contradiction of this, but they stood there paralysed at the sight of Wilson.
"Sit down, sit down, sit down!" cried Stranleigh, with some impatience. "Wilson, what will you take to drink?"
"Nothing at this time of the morning, my lord."
"A cup of coffee, at least?"
"No, thank you."
"Do I own property in Muddleshire?"
