He left the window, and took up a commanding position on the hearthrug, with his back to the portrait of his father. He began temperately, sensible that it behooved him to set an example of good temper and forbearance:
“I have made allowances for you, Ben. I have assumed part of the blame for what took place yesterday, because it is true that you’ve worked faithfully for me and mine. But no servant can speak as you spoke to me and remain in my service. The thing is unthinkable—impossible. And yet, you offer no apology.”
He spoke so kindly, with such sincere amazement, that Fishpingle evaded the issue.
“Consider the years I’ve been here, Sir Geoffrey, and all, all that the dear old place means to me.”
“That, Ben, is a reason for behaving so that you can still belong to us.”
The Squire felt more at his ease again. He told himself that he was dealing faithfully with a misguided man. Fishpingle’s next words confirmed this faith.
“I am grieved to have angered you, deeply grieved.”
“Ah! Now, Ben, we are coming together.”
“Are we, Sir Geoffrey? I wish that it were so. But how—how can I stand up as a man and say that I’m wrong when I feel here,” he struck his chest, “that I’m—right?”
The Squire cocked his chin at a more obtuse angle.