"I can get along with a hundred a year," said Mark quietly.
"Rubbish, my dear lad, rubbish! But the living's a good 'un, and the house in capital repair. You would be very comfortable; and," he eyed Mark pleasantly, "and you'll be following Archie's example—hey? Marry a girl with a bit o' money! There's Kitty Bowker, and——"
"Pater—we won't talk of that."
"We? I'm talking of it. I don't ask you to say a word, not a word. Oh, I know why you didn't come to Archie's wedding, but bless you, Betty's not the only nice girl in the world. I'll say no more. I'm glad to see you looking so fit. That slumming in the East End disgusted you—drove you into that tweed suit—hey? But it'll be quite different at King's Charteris. You can manage a day's hunting a week and a day's shooting throughout the season. Kitty Bowker looks very well outside a horse—and she likes a man who goes free at his fences as you used to do. Your letter this morning, you know, startled us a bit. The Madam thought of Rome. Nothing in that—hey?"
The Squire looked hard at the decanter which indeed was quite empty.
"Absolutely nothing," said Mark absently.
"I told the Madam I'd say a word, and there it is: a capital house, in excellent repair, with——"
"The present incumbent still alive," said Mark.
"True, true—we'll say no more, not a word. Shall we go into the drawing-room?"
He rose with a certain effort and moved too ponderously towards the door. For the first time Mark realised that his father must soon become an old man. A wave of affection surged through him.