“Rich? Rich? The old pincher! I’ve often wondered what Ben did with his money. Saved every bob, I expect. Were you tempted to take that monkey?”
“No.”
“Good! Ben is a faithful and loyal soul.”
“Isn’t he more than that, father?”
“Hay? What d’ye mean, boy?”
“It seems to me that he must have the most astounding affection for us. I’m quite rattled about it. Why hasn’t he gone on his own?”
But, to this question, the Squire could offer no adequate answer. He mumbled out: “Dear old Ben, we rabbited together. We had rare larks as boys.” Evidently the Squire thought that this accounted for everything. Lionel thought otherwise. But he kept his reflections to himself. Alfred entered with the coffee. Fishpingle followed with the old brandy. The Squire motioned to his butler to remain in the room. It was cheery to hear his mellow tones, as he said superbly:
“A glass of wine with us, old friend. Master Lionel has told me of your offer. It was worthy of you, Ben. My hand on it.”
Master and man shook hands. Fishpingle drank his wine, was questioned and cross-questioned about his day on the river, and most graciously dismissed. Lionel thought: “This is the Old School, with a vengeance.” Once more, he wondered at the change in himself, which enabled him to see so plainly that others had not changed.
When they joined Lady Pomfret, the Squire sank cosily into an immense armchair and soon dozed off. Lionel watched his mother playing “Patience.” She sat upright at a small satin-wood card-table, her delicate hand poised above the cards, her head very erect. All her movements were graceful and deliberate. One could not imagine her running to catch a train. As a small boy, Lionel believed that she went to bed fully dressed, although really, he had proof positive to the contrary. When he sat beside her, she smiled and caressed his hand. She was playing “Miss Milligan,” an old favourite. Lionel lifted her hand and kissed it, as he said chaffingly: