“Sell that? Never, my lady.”
She shrugged her shoulders, regarding him ironically, reflecting with ever-increasing amazement that long service with the Pomfrets had positively turned him into a Pomfret, that he had become blind, like his master, to what was so crystal clear to her—the necessity of sacrifice, of lopping off superabundant growth to save a splendid tree.
“It is worth twenty thousand pounds, Ben.”
He remained silent. Undismayed, she tried again.
“That outlying strip of building property, eh? Would it be missed?”
Fishpingle grunted. It was futile to discuss such matters with a Belwether. Everybody knew that their estates had melted away by just such a process of constant disintegration. He said vehemently:
“Your ladyship knows that the most valuable pictures are heirlooms.”
“That could be got over with Master Lionel’s consent.”
So, she had taken expert opinion! A sweet lady, but a crafty.
“All the land is strictly entailed.”