“By God! It’s I that am wrong, is it?”
Fishpingle answered very slowly:
“You have been very generous about Prudence and Alfred. But—there’s Mr. Lionel. He’s your only son, Sir Geoffrey. If he dies unmarried, strangers will come here. Strangers”—he glanced round the beautiful room—“will live here. Is it wrong of me to think so much of that? Wasn’t I brought up at Nether-Applewhite? Didn’t I play with you as a child—an only child, too?”
“That will do, Ben. What you say moves me, as it moves you. But, if you are to remain here, we must change our relations.”
Fishpingle murmured almost inaudibly:
“Yes, yes; our relations must be changed.”
There was a long pause. The Squire fidgeted. He repudiated sentiment, but sentiment was gripping him. The distress upon Fishpingle’s face pleaded eloquently for him.
“Come, come, Ben. Don’t be an obstinate old fool! Beg my pardon handsomely, and have done with it. Damn it! Ill bribe you, b’ Jove! You shall have Bonsor’s billet, and his house, and poke your nose into everything till—till the end.”
Overcome by his own magnanimity, the Squire blew his nose sonorously.
“I have always wanted that, Sir Geoffrey. It’s a big bribe. But, there’s Mr. Lionel——”