“Are you going dotty, Ben?”
“That particular sum hangs in the dining-room.” He leant forward, meeting the Squire’s eyes. For a moment the Squire failed to catch his meaning. When that meaning percolated to his marrow, he swore prodigiously, as our Army, long ago, was said to have sworn in Flanders. His glance become congested. With a gulp, he tossed off his wine.
“There!” he spluttered, “you’ve made me choke over the best wine in the world. Sell the Sir Joshua, which, by the way, isn’t mine to sell? Sell the finest picture in the house? Dammy, you are mad. What d’ye mean, hay?” He glared fiercely at the one man living whom he could have sworn to be incapable of making such an amazing suggestion.
Fishpingle paid no attention to his ebullition of indignation.
“Heirlooms, very valuable heirlooms, can be sold, Sir Geoffrey, under certain conditions.”
The Squire exploded again.
“This is the limit. You’ve thought of this—you—you! I supposed, dash it! that you were drawing a bow at a venture, firing into the ‘brown.’ Not a bit of it! You really mean it.” Fishpingle bowed. “It’s a deliberate suggestion. Why not put a halter about my lady, and sell her at auction in Salisbury market-place? Ha—ha! Why not start an old curiosity shop with the family plate and furniture? We should do a roarin’ trade. However, there it is. You’re not a Pomfret. We might sell some land, hay?”
“Yes. That outlying strip—for building purposes.”
“My God! The man is dotty.”
His old master looked so genuinely concerned and distressed that Fishpingle melted. His voice quavered; he held out his hands entreatingly.