“Lionel dined with us,” said the Parson. “Your message was duly delivered to him by Fishpingle.”
“Then we both know where we are,” said the Squire briskly.
“Do we, Sir Geoffrey?”
A suppressed irony, not lost upon the Squire, informed the question. The Parson had long held the opinion—shared, as we know, by Lady Margot—that the lay rector of his parish wandered in the Middle Ages. Sir Geoffrey believed that his vicar kept company with rogues and vagabonds, whom he described genetically as demagogues.
“I know where I am,” amended the Squire. “I have often said that I inherited this property with certain disabilities. Amongst them, I take it, you would reckon a keen sense of trusteeship, a sense of tradition, a conviction that I must follow where my predecessors have trod before me.”
Hamlin smiled grimly.
“You are right. I reckon that sense a disability. But I respect any man’s honest convictions. I will be equally frank with you. Had it rested with me, I should have chosen for my daughter a husband who was entirely free from those same crippling disabilities. I should not have chosen your son.”
“Then I repeat—we know where we are.”
“Not yet. Where we are seems to me of little consequence. I am concerned with others, the position of my daughter and your son. They love each other.”
“Can they marry on that alone?”