Mr. Goodrich nodded.
“M’yes; he so impressed me this morning.” Then he added genially:
“His son, John, is a bright young fellow—um?”
“Bright? He may brighten into a fire-brand. He labels himself Socialist. I shall do my duty, Mr. Goodrich.”
The parson purred pleasantly, rubbing his hands.
“You’ll rebuild the cowsheds——? How good of you——!”
“No.” She spoke sharply. “The man’s a fool to house delicate high-bred stock in ramshackle buildings. I’ve remitted part of his rent.”
“We all know how kind you are about that.”
Lady Selina made a deprecating gesture. Then, with her usual energy, she set forth her case as against that of her tenant. Because of certain concessions, Exton had undertaken to keep the farm buildings in reasonable repair. But the money which ought to have been spent on roofs had been diverted to the speculative purchase of valuable stock. The parson lent an attentive and sympathetic ear, but he had heard the tale before. One word explained the trouble as between landlord and tenant—Compromise. Secretly, he was of opinion that outside repairs should be done by landlords, regardless of other concessions, but he didn’t say so to the lady of the manor. Plain speech meant an indictment of Gridley, the bailiff, the power behind the throne. Lady Selina might send for Gridley. Indeed she had done so before. And always Gridley—bother him!—got the best of such talk.
Lady Selina ended on the highest note.