“Grimshaw? You have talked with him?” She nodded. “What did he say?”
She repeated Grimshaw’s words almost verbatim.
“Yes, yes. Grimshaw is right. The trouble is deep-seated, and goes back to feudal times. Most of us muddle through somehow.”
“You don’t.”
“Oh, well,” he laughed, “I’m a bit of a carpet-bagger, and I’ve applied to estate management the methods which succeed in our big industries. The temper of this country won’t stand much more muddling. As Grimshaw says, we land-owners must try to mobilise. And the old machinery must be scrapped. I told you once before that money is needed, the sinews of war. Because, mind you, this means war, a fight to a finish against inefficiency and stupidity, with most of your mother’s farmers arrayed against us. I shan’t have so much time to spend with you, Cis.”
She pressed his hand, and then released her own.
“I have your pearls in my pocket,” he whispered.
A moment afterwards the lustrous string dangled before her eyes. Instantly, as has been said, she appreciated the splendour of the gift. And, as instantly, she knew that it exacted a response. Why couldn’t she fling her arms about his neck and press her lips to his? The fingers that held the pearls trembled; the colour ebbed from her cheeks.
“What can I say?” she murmured.
“Bless you! You needn’t say anything.”