“Um! The stock has worn thin, but what of it—what of it? An infusion of fresh, healthy blood is needed.” He closed the Peerage with a bang. “Take the damned book away!” Fishpingle replaced it, and came back. “Sit you down man,” Fishpingle obeyed. “I take you unreservedly into my confidence.” Fishpingle bowed solemnly. “I want to bring about this match. As I told my lady—no pressure. It must come about naturally. I haven’t asked anybody to meet Lady Margot here. The young people will be thrown together, and there you are!”
Fishpingle remained obstinately silent. The Squire glared at him.
“You don’t share my wish, you crusty old dog? What’s in your mind. Speak out freely!”
“I was thinking, Sir Geoffrey, of young Lord Fordingbridge.”
“Then your wits are wool-gathering. He married a year ago, and what a marriage, b’ Jove! His agent’s daughter.”
“A fortnight ago,” said Fishpingle, with a faint smile, “her ladyship was safely delivered of twin sons. His lordship and his lordship’s father were only sons. That stock had worn thin.”
Light came to the Squire and blazed in his blue eyes.
“I take you, Ben, I take you. I suppose, if you had your way, you’d arrange a marriage between my son and a prolific milkmaid.”
“It would be sound eugenics.”
“Damn eugenics! I’d sooner see my boy dead in his coffin than marrying out of his own class. What d’ye say to that?”