She retorted sombrely:
“Better prices may not come, and my son is coming home.”
“Master Lionel, my lady, will think as his father thinks.”
“Ben, you make things hard for me.”
She sat down, folding her hands upon her lap. Her expression indicated resignation, feminine weakness. Fishpingle was not deceived. The battle was not over, but beginning. Her ladyship had cleared her decks for action.
“I can’t quite follow you, my lady.”
“You will in a moment,” her tone brightened. Outside, she could hear Sir Geoffrey rating a retriever. That meant freedom from interruption. In five minutes the faithful Ben would be enlightened. She asked him to sit down. He did so with a premonition of defeat.
“Has it occurred to you, my dear old friend, that the simplest solution of our problem might be found if Lionel married money?”
Fishpingle flushed a little. The delicate flattery of leaving out the formal pretext to her son’s son, the tacit assurance that she suspended for a moment the difficult relationship between mistress and man, produced its intended effect.
“I have often thought of it, my lady.”