“Dear Fane,”—he dictated—“we must have five hundred pounds’ worth of timber down as soon as possible, as I want fresh cottages to replace those in Water Lane and Foxholes. Have workmen over immediately. This rebuilding is by the wish of my heir, Miss Lisle.”
“Now bring it me to sign,” her cousin said.
She brought it, and, as she gave him his pen, she did what she had never done before, she stooped and kissed his forehead.
“I didn’t like to tell you before,” she cried, “because you said you could do nothing for the cottages, but Mrs. Sawyer is ill, and when I went to see her this afternoon she said she never would be better while she lived in that cottage. Will she have one of the new ones, St. Quentin?”
“Yes, and I’ll mark hers for pulling down. We’ll do this business thoroughly while we’re about it, beginning with Lislehurst, but going on to the rest.”
He wrote his signature large and clearly. As he did so, Sir Algernon came back into the room. He glanced at the letter.
“So you’ve done it. I say, my dear fellow, philanthropy is all very well, but you can’t afford it at present.”
“Since when did I give you leave to read my private letters?” asked St. Quentin drily. As he spoke he placed the letter in an envelope, directed it, and put it into Sydney’s hand.
“One of the men is to take it over to Fane’s place at once,” he said.