“Oh dear, no!”
“You reassure me. But you know, Mary, I have always had an odd presentiment that Lionel might stick a knife into me.”
Lady Pomfret lost her composure for an instant. She said emphatically:
“That presentiment is preposterous.”
The Squire continued at an easier pace, ambling forward to his objective.
“I mean this, my dear. We know our dear Lionel. He is a good boy, a nice affectionate son:——”
“That and much more,” murmured the mother.
“I quite agree, but I am not blind to his—a—limitations. He talks with Tom, Dick, and Harry. I have his word for it. He talks with that pestilent parson.”
Lady Pomfret protested. Protest, she was well aware, might be wasted, but, being the woman she was, she had to make it.
“Mr. Hamlin is not pestilent. He is like you—”