The Squire replaced the letter in its envelope. As he gave it back to Fishpingle, he asked hoarsely:
“Have you forgiven our grandmother?”
“There was nothing to forgive. My dear lady, had her son wished to marry Prudence, would have done the same. I am Pomfret enough to understand that.”
The Squire nodded, murmuring:
“And yet, if my father had got his way, you would be sitting in this chair—the Lord of the Manor.”
Fishpingle repeated the words softly:
“The Lord of the Manor.”
Sir Geoffrey stood up. He moved slowly towards Fishpingle, slightly bent, with bowed head. Then he held out his hand.
“My—brother.” He raised his head and his voice: “And before God, Ben, you have been my brother. For more than fifty years.”
“Happy years!”