“Yes, in the Elysian fields.”
At this moment the front door slammed, and Ted banged up the stairs, and rushed in. If I had not known him I should have said he was drunk.
He was wildly excited, he was crimson. He careered round the room waving his arms, and then plumped on to the sofa, and stretched out his short legs in front of him.
“I’ve bought it. I’ve got it,” he shouted. “Do you hear? I’ve bought it dirt cheap. The young ass is in such a hurry, and he’s apparently so wealthy he doesn’t care. And two hundred acres of timber with it. Such timber. Such walnut, and chestnut and oak. The timber alone is worth the money, I’ve got it. It’s mine.”
“The house in Essex?”
“Kenstone Manor, in Essex. It’s a nailer. It’s a—a—an old world residence. It has no central heating, no bathrooms, no electric light, obsolete drainage and the floors are giving way. I shall have to put in everything, but I shall do it without spending a penny. I shall do it by the timber, and it’s nine miles from a station, that’s partly why no one wanted it. But the railroad is coming. No one knows that yet except a few of us, but it will be there in five years, with a station on the property. Then I shall sell all the land within easy reach of the station in small building lots for villas. I shall make a pile.”
Ted’s round eyes became solemn. He was gazing into the future, leaning forward, a stout hand on each stout knee.
“Teddy shall go to Eton,” he said, “and I shall put him in the Guards.”
A week later Ted took us down by motor to see Kenstone. It was too far for us to return the same day, so he engaged rooms for us in the village inn. His “buyer” was to meet him, and advise him as to what part of the contents of the house he should offer to take over by private treaty before the sale.
On a gleaming day in late September we sped along the lovely Essex lanes, between the pale harvested fields.