The Squire lost his temper.
“What has Mr. Lionel got to do with you, Ben? I’ve let you have your way about Prudence. B’ Jove! I’ll take no more of this from any one out of my family.”
“You are proud of your family, Sir Geoffrey, and so am I. I’ve a natural right to speak plainly to you.”
The Squire was arrested by his tone.
“A natural right? What d’ye mean?”
Fishpingle hesitated; he stretched out his hands.
“I want to go fishing and rabbiting with Mr. Lionel’s children.”
“Tchah! So you shall—so you shall. Dammy, don’t I know that you’re proud of the family; and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to own up that you’ve treated the head of its shabbily. Here, now—there!”
He smiled again, seeing Fishpingle as a boy. A ferret carried by the Squire in his coat pocket had bitten him in the throat. Ben had pulled the beast off. Lady Alicia had ordered that coat to be burnt, because the polecat scent offended her aristocratic nose. What jolly days those were, to be sure!
“Yes—I’ve been wrong,” murmured Fishpingle.