“We will say fifteen hundred, Cheriton, and call it settled,” said Caroline with the air of a money-lender.
Her old friend frankly enjoyed the situation. He knew where the shoe pinched as well as she did. Her craft and her avarice reminded him of Balzac’s novels.
“If you say fifteen hundred, my dear Caroline,” said her old friend, “I must say fifteen hundred too.”
Caroline pondered again. Cheriton was not a good life, and nearly everything was entailed.
“Three thousand a year in perpetuity?” said Caroline, harshly.
“Ye-es,” said Cheriton. “Dooced liberal, I think, for a poor parson’s daughter.”
Caroline bristled. She looked not only prickly but venomous.
“Don’t forget, Cheriton,” she said truculently, “that the creature is a Wargrave.”
“An effete strain, there is reason to fear,” said Cheriton with perfect composure.
The head-dress performed surprising feats. Cheriton fell to considerations of how far it might be safe to bait the old lioness. No sport is worth much without there is a spice of danger in it. He enjoyed the play none the less because he was so sensible of its peril. Caroline Crewkerne was not a person to be baited with impunity.