“Brilliant,” added Fishpingle.
“Master Lionel, God bless him!” said the Squire.
Fishpingle’s voice quavered, as he repeated the toast.
“Master Lionel, God bless him!”
They sipped the wine, winking at each other.
“What a breed, Ben!”
“What vinosity, Sir Geoffrey!” He looked at the nectar with a melancholy smile, as he continued: “There was a time, Sir Geoffrey, when a gentleman drank a decanter of this after dinner. And now, one bottle amongst four men.”
“Not if I’m of that party,” replied the Squire briskly. “Sit ye down, Ben, sit ye down. We’ll have a second glass presently and another toast.”
They sat down at the Cromwellian table, with the decanter between them. A full week had elapsed since Fishpingle’s confidential talk with Lady Pomfret, and, so far, the Squire had not spoken a word about Alfred and Prudence. Probably—so Fishpingle reflected—her ladyship had assured Sir Geoffrey that it was wiser to leave the young people alone. Upon the other and more important matter of selling the Reynolds Fishpingle had kept silence, biding the right opportunity. At this moment he wondered whether it was about to present itself.
Sir Geoffrey harked back to his son.