“Oo aye,” he nodded. “’Tis a’ that, laddie, and yet ye contrived tae pit up wi’t for five lang year.” At this Sir John frowned and was silent. “Aweel, aweel,” quoth Sir Hector, “there’s England waitin’ ye, aye, and happiness, I trust——”
“Happiness!” repeated Sir John scornfully.
“Why not, lad? ’Tis time ye married and settled doon——”
“Horrific thought!” growled Sir John.
“Why, then, John,” quoth Sir Hector, his English suddenly very precise, “you might begin to take an interest in your own affairs, particularly your estates; they are damnably mismanaged, I hear, more especially at High Dering ... where you were born and your mother died ... sweet soul!”
“High Dering!” repeated Sir John. “I’ faith it seems a far cry to the old house—the green slopes of Firle and our good South Downs! ’Tis long since we saw ’em together, Hector?”
“Yes, John, it is seven years and more since you left High Dering for London and the modish world. And to-day, lad, instead of being a plain country gentleman content in the prosperity of your tenants, here you stand a man of fashion, a town gallant full of polite airs and tricks and graces, but curst unhappy by your looks—while High Dering is going to the devil!”
“’Tis mismanaged, you say, Hector? And yet Sturton, my bailiff, seems to do very well——”
“Oh, excellent well, John, for you—and himself! But ’tis vastly otherwise with your tenantry, I hear.”