“She's an Australian, they say,” answered his grandfather; “—no relation, I fancy.”
“Is Mortgrange a grand place?” asked Richard.
“It's a fine house and a great estate,” answered Simon. “More might be made of it, no doubt; and I hope one day more will be made of it.”
“What do you mean by that, grandfather?”
“That I hope the son will make a better landlord than the father.”
They came to a great iron gate, standing open, without any lodge.
“We're in luck!” said the blacksmith. “This will save us a long round! Somebody must have rode out, and been too lazy to shut it! We'd better leave it as we find it, though! Or say we bring the two halves together without snapping the locks! I know the locks; I put 'em both on myself.—See now what a piece of work that gate is! All done with the hand! None o' your beastly casting there! Up to your work, that, I'm thinking, lad!”
“Indeed it is! Those gates are worth reducing, for plates to stamp the covers of a right precious volume with!”
Simon misunderstood, and was on the point of flaring up, but what Richard followed with quieted him.
“I could almost give up bookbinding to work a pair of gates like those!” he said.