You have heard of our troubles, no doubt."
"I have heard nothing," said Dona. "No?
Perhaps you are too remote here for the news to reach you, though the talk and chatter has been rife for miles around.
We have been vexed and harried, almost at our wits' end, in fact, with acts of piracy.
Goods of considerable value have been lost at Penryn, and along the coast.
An estate of my neighbour's was sacked a week or so ago."
"How distressing," said Dona.
"It is more than distressing, it is a positive outrage!" declared Godolphin, his face reddening, his eyes more bulbous than ever, "and no one knows how to deal with it.
I have sent up complaints to London, and get no reply.
They send us a handful of soldiers from the garrison at Bristol, but they are worse than useless.
No, I can see that I and the rest of the landowners in the county will have to band ourselves together and deal with the menace.
It is very unfortunate that Harry is not at Navron, very unfortunate."
"Can I do anything to help you?" asked Dona, digging her nails into her hand to stop herself from smiling: he looked so provoked, so highly indignant, almost as though he blamed her for the acts of piracy.
"My dear lady," he said, "there is nothing you can do, except ask your husband to come down, and rally round his friends, so that we can fight this damned Frenchman."
"Frenchman?" she said.
"Why, yes, that's the plague of it," he said, almost shouting in his anger; "the fellow's a low sneaking foreigner, who for some reason or other seems to know our coast like the back of his hand, and slips away to the other side, to Brittany, before we can lay our hands on him.
His craft is like quicksilver, none of our ships down here can catch him.
He'll creep into our harbours by night, land silently like the stealthy rat he is, seize our goods, break open our stores and merchandise, and be away on the morning tide while our fellows are rubbing the sleep out of their eyes."
"In fact, he is too clever for you," said Dona.
"Why, yes, madam - if you like to put it that way," he answered haughtily, at once taking offence.
"I'm afraid Harry would never catch him, he is far too lazy," she said.
"I do not for a moment suggest that he could," said Godolphin, "but we need heads in this business, the more heads the better.
And we have to catch this fellow if it means spending all the time and money at our disposal.
You perhaps do not realise how serious the matter is.
Down here we are constantly robbed, our womenfolk sleep in terror of their lives, and not only their lives."
"Oh, he is that sort of pirate, then?" murmured Dona.
"No lives have been lost as yet, and none of our women have been taken," said Godolphin stiffly, "but as the fellow is a Frenchman we all realise that it is only a question of time before something dastardly occurs."
"Oh, quite," said Dona, and seized with sudden laughter she rose to her feet and walked towards the window, for his gravity and pomposity were beyond bearing, she could stand it no longer, her laughter would win control.
But, thank heaven, he took her rising as a gesture of dismissal, for he bowed solemnly, and kissed the hand she gave him.
"When you next send messages to your husband I trust you will remember me to him, and give him some account of our troubles," he said, and
"Yes, of course," answered Dona, determined that whatever happened Harry should not come hot-foot down to Navron to deal with elusive pirates, breaking in upon her privacy and lovely freedom.
When she had promised that she would call upon his wife, and he had uttered a few more formalities, she summoned William, and he withdrew, and she heard the steady trot of his horse as he vanished down the drive.
She hoped he would be the last visitor, for this sort of thing was not what she intended; this solemn sitting around on chairs exchanging small conversation with a turnip-head was one degree worse than supping at the Swan.
William must be warned, in future she would not be at home to callers.
He must make an excuse: she would be out walking, or asleep, or ill, or mad even - confined to her room in chains - anything, rather than face the Godolphins of the county, in all their grandeur and pomposity.
How dull-witted they must be, these local gentry, to be robbed in this way, their goods and merchandise seized in the night, and unable to prevent it, even with the help of soldiers.
How slow they must be, how inefficient.
Surely if they kept a watch, were constantly on the alert, it would be possible to lay some trap for the foreigner as he crept into their harbours.
A ship was not a phantom thing, it depended on wind and tide, nor were men soundless, their feet must echo on the quays, their voices fall upon the air.
That day she dined early, at six, and talked to William as he stood behind her chair, bidding him close the door to visitors in future.
"You see, William," she said, "I came to Navron to avoid people, to be alone.
My mood is to play the hermit, while I am here."
"Yes, my lady," he said, "I made a mistake about this afternoon.
It shall not occur again.
You shall enjoy your solitude, and make good your escape."
"Escape?" she said.
"Yes, my lady," he answered,
"I have rather gathered that is why you are here. You are a fugitive from your London self, and Navron is your sanctuary."
She was silent a minute, astonished, a little dismayed, and then:
"You have uncanny intuition, William," she said, "where does it come from?"