George nodded.
“I shall have a fiver on him for luck. I can't afford to bet. Saw your mother at the Foxholme garden-party last week. You seen them lately?”
George shook his head and felt an odd squeeze: at his heart.
“You know they had a fire at old Peacock's farm; I hear the Squire and Barter did wonders. He's as game as a pebble, the Squire.”
Again George nodded, and again felt that squeeze at his heart.
“Aren't they coming to town this season?”
“Haven't heard,” answered George. “Have a cigar?”
Winlow took the cigar, and cutting it with a small penknife, scrutinised George's square face with his leisurely eyes. It needed a physiognomist to penetrate its impassivity. Winlow thought to himself:
'I shouldn't be surprised if what they say about old George is true.'... “Had a good meeting so far?”
“So-so.”