Beaumont pointed to the Grange with his stick.
"Over there," he answered, "seeing his patient. I expect he'll have to remain down here for some time--the Squire has taken a great fancy to him--rich men's likings are poor men's fortunes."
"Good. I wish someone would take a liking to me," said Blake with a sigh. "I need a fortune."
"You've got one."
"Indeed! Where?"
"In your throat!"
Reginald laughed and shook his head.
"I hardly think that," he answered gaily.
"Don't be so mock modest, my dear boy," said Beaumont with a shrug. "I assure you I'm not one to praise unnecessarily. You need training, severe training, to bring your voice to perfection; but you've got a wonderful organ to work on--not that voice is everything, mind you; I've known people with good voices to whom such a gift is absolutely worthless."
"Why?"