“Very wise of him.”
“There is that Mr Watcombe, the big brewer, still in the field, and he has some influence, especially at Tilborough amongst the racing people; but, of course, he has not a chance.”
“A brewer? Faugh!”
“Yes, my lady; the man’s pretensions are absurd. Will you go through the estate accounts this morning?”
“Impossible now, Mr Trimmer; the news you have given me is too disturbing, and besides, Sir Hilton will be down here to breakfast. That will do now.”
“Thank you, my lady—er—er—”
“Yes, Mr Trimmer?” said the lady, looking up inquiringly.
“I am very sorry to make a request, my lady, at such a time, especially as there is a good deal requires looking over at the farm just now; but I should be greatly obliged if your ladyship could spare me for the rest of the day.”
“Oh, certainly, Mr Trimmer,” said Lady Lisle, looking at her sedate steward so wonderingly that he felt it necessary to make some explanation.
“I regret to say that I have had a telegram from London, my lady—an aged relative—very ill, and expressing a desire to see me.”