“You?”
Fishpingle spread out his hands. When he spoke his voice was low and troubled.
“I am quaking with fear.”
He held out a trembling hand. Lionel seized it and pressed it. Then he went on, confidently:
“Joyce, the blessed honey-pot, has everything except money.”
“Which is so badly needed here.”
“I’m hanged if you’re not depressing me.”
Fishpingle made another gesture before he replied, selecting carefully each word:
“If you ask for my help, it’s yours. But the Squire may resent interference on the part of his butler. It might lead to a breach, to—to my dismissal from his service. That possibility, Master Lionel, makes a coward of me. And if such a dreadful thing happened, it would make matters ten times as hard for you. You are dependent on him.”
“Not absolutely. I could exchange into another regiment. I——” he broke off suddenly. “I won’t admit that father’s heart is flint. But, rain or shine, my Joyce will stick to me, and I to her.”