“I am furious with you, sir. Thanks to you and your precious kinswoman I have been forced, sorely against the grain, to refuse a guest a favour, and, worse, to rebuke my dear wife.”
Lionel cast discretion to the void. The Pomfret temper might be deemed an heirloom. It slumbered in Lionel. Now—it woke.
“This is damnable.”
The Squire could hardly believe his ears. When he turned upon his son, his eyes, also, seemed hardly to be trusted. Lionel was positively glaring at him. Rank mutiny! Riot!
“How dare you take this tone, boy?”
Lionel attempted no apology.
“I would remind you, sir, that I am a man, and not only your son, but your heir. If I survive you, which at one time didn’t seem likely, this property and its responsibilities must come to me. I have a right—indeed, sir, it is my duty—to protest against an act of injustice and cruelty.”
“Leave the room, sir. This is intolerable.”
Lionel boiled over. Behold the creeper at awkward fences! Behold the craner! Fishpingle, standing behind the Squire, hoisted warning signals. In vain. A hot-headed youth was riding hard for a fall. He met his father’s eyes defiantly.
“I am not blind, sir, to your plans for my future. You intended me, your own son, to be a pawn in your hands.”