“Sir Geoffrey, I know how you feel. We were boys together. I am, I hope, part of the family, and as—as proud of it as you are. But this—this sacrifice would put things right for you—and Master Lionel.”
“Much you know about him,” the Squire growled out, “if you think he would be a party to such a—a violation, yes, violation, of all our traditions. Not another word!” He raised his hand peremptorily. “I shall overlook this outrageous suggestion, Ben, because you mean well—you mean well. I lost my temper, I admit it, because I thought you knew me, through and through, and shared my feelings about this property and what goes with it, which, mark you, is a sacred trust for which—a—I deem myself accountable. Finish your wine, man!” Fishpingle drained his glass. “Now”—the Squire’s voice rang out cheerily—“we will forget all this. I’ve another toast. Fill your glass and mine. We’ll drink it standing.”
Fishpingle obeyed his instructions. The two men stood up. Sir Geoffrey laughed, as he held up his glass.
“The toast, Ben, is worthy of the wine. I give you: Master Lionel’s wife!”
Fishpingle nearly dropped his glass.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Is Master Lionel married?”
The Squire chuckled.
“Had you there, Ben. You rose like a fat trout at a May-fly. I give the toast again: Master Lionel’s future wife!”
“He’s found her?”
“Not yet, but I think I have. Drink, man, drink.”