"Good morning, Sir Richard."
The baronet pulled up to exchange a word with the first of his tenant farmers he was to meet that day, a bull-necked, stubby man who was leaning over a gate against a background of bright green barley.
"Good morning to you, Wilberforce. Your barley's looking uncommonly well."
"Beautiful, Sir Richard, beautiful. Some grumbles, but not me, Sir Richard, not me. May was bad for fruit with all that hail we had. But the crops didn't suffer. Will you be passing by the farm, Sir Richard?"
"Not this morning, Wilberforce. I'm taking my annual ride round the estate. You know my old custom."
"None better, Sir Richard. And what a one you be for keeping up old customs, if you'll permit the liberty of the observation, Sir Richard. And glad I am for one to have such a landlord in these days when Jack thinks himself so good as his master. And how's Mr. John, Sir Richard?"
"Mr. John is well, very well. He hopes to be quartered at Aldershot presently, when we may expect to see something of him."
"It'll be a grand day for Barton Flowers when the village turns out to see the conquering hero come. Mr. John must have been proud when Her Majesty pinned on the Victoria Cross with her own hands at Buckingham Palace the other day. But, as I said to all of 'em, Her Majesty must have been proud of Mr. John when she were a-pinning of it on."
"Yes, I believe he deserved his honor," said the father, trying to look unconcerned. "Of course you saw the little account of it in the newspaper?"