“You told me to use tact.”
Eventually, Fishpingle saw the brethren and persuaded them to remain in Nether-Applewhite. He elicited the truth. Two of the brothers were engaged to be married and wanted cottages. Bonsor had told them to remain single, because no cottages were vacant. Fishpingle promised them new cottages, whereat the Squire grumbled and growled. He said to Lionel:
“Where is the money to come from?”
Lionel winced, thinking of the draft on its way to India. The Squire tapped him on the shoulder—
“Lionel, my boy, that nice little girl with something in her stocking is house-warming in my heart.”
Lionel nodded, not too enthusiastically.
The Squire was so full of his plan for cancelling the family mortgage and rebuying the land sold by his grandfather that he could not keep it from Fishpingle. As a rule, they spent an hour together each morning, going over estate accounts which, properly considered, were Bonsor’s business. Fishpingle, however, had kept such accounts for fifteen years, burning much midnight oil over them.
“Ben,” said the Squire, “that little lady is coming to us next week.”
“You mean Lady Margot, Sir Geoffrey.”