“Well, no, sir,” said Hemingway, startled but respectful. “That's true enough, but—”
“The Squire has angina pectoris,” said the Vicar simply.
“You don't say so!” exclaimed Hemingway, shocked.
“There is no reason to suppose that the Squire won't live for a great many years yet,” said Haswell.
“Indeed, we must all pray that he will, my dear Haswell!”
“Yes, but I see what the Vicar means,” said Hemingway. “With that disease—well, you don't know what a day may bring forth, do you? I'm not surprised Mrs. Ainstable looks so anxious. And he's not the sort to spare himself, by what I can see.”
“He is not an invalid,” said Haswell shortly. “He has been an energetic man all his life, and it would be extremely bad for him not to take the sort of exercise he's accustomed to.”
“True, very true!” the Vicar said. “One wishes, though that he had fewer cares to weigh upon him. I am almost tempted to say, that he were less conscientious, but one should not, and indeed one does not, wish that.”
“Struggling to keep up an estate which some kind of a cousin or nephew who lives in South Africa will inherit,” said Hemingway slowly. “And I should say it is a struggle.” He glanced at Haswell. “I saw he'd been cutting down a lot of timber.”
“Also planting new trees, however.”