“The Extons must go.”
“Yes, Ephraim will leave his farm a year from to-morrow. Be perfectly pleasant with the old man, and make him see that I am acting in the interests of a property which I regard as a sacred trust! Underline sacred trust, Agatha. Lord Wilverley, if the Extons accept the inevitable in the proper spirit, might at a word from me give Ephraim one of his smaller farms. He is quite incapable of doing justice to a large one.”
At this point a strangled sob escaped Agatha. Lady Selina suddenly beheld, in perspective, a weeping community, bewailing the loss of the Extons. Their lamentations filled the air.
“Are you in pain, Agatha?”
“Oh, my lady, of course I am. It’s terrible. And that I—I—their friend—should—should——”
She became inarticulate with distress.
“Come, come, you silly girl. Control yourself! Type and copy that letter, and I’ll sign it.”
“No.”
The devastating monosyllable threw Lady Selina off her balance. It outraged her sense of decorum and deportment. Metaphorically, the solid rock of tradition and custom seemed to give way; she positively foundered in quicksands. Gaspingly, she exclaimed:
“What! You refuse——”