“You have brought the deed?” he asked.
“Certainly, Sir Wingrave.”
The lawyer produced a roll of parchment from his bag. In response to Wingrave’s gesture, he seated himself on the extreme edge of an adjacent seat.
“I do not propose to read all that stuff through,” Wingrave remarked. “I take it for granted that the deed is made out according to my instructions.”
“Certainly, Sir Wingrave!”
“Then we will go into the house, and I will sign it.”
Mr. Pengarth mopped his forehead once more. It was a terrible thing to have a conscience.
“Sir Wingrave,” he said, “I apologize most humbly for what I am about to say, but as the agent of your estates in this county and your—er—legal adviser with regard to them, I am forced to ask you whether you are quite determined upon this—most unexampled piece of generosity. Tredowen has been in your mother’s family for a great many years, and although I must say that I have a great affection for this young lady, I have also an old fashioned dislike to seeing—er—family property pass into the hands of strangers. You might, forgive me—marry!”
Wingrave smiled very faintly, otherwise his face was inscrutable.
“I might,” he admitted calmly, “but I shall not. Do you consider me, Mr. Pengarth, to be a person in possession of his usual faculties?”