He gives her this in briefest epitome:—
“The Llangorren estates to be sold by public auction, with all the appurtenances, mansion, park, ornamental grounds, home and out farms, manorial rights, presentation to church living, etc, etc.”
“Très bien! Have you put down the date? It should be soon.”
“You’re right, chérie. Should, and must be. So soon, I fear we won’t realise three-fourths of the value. But there’s no help for it, with the ugly thing threatening—hanging over our necks like a very sword of Damocles.”
“You mean the tongue of le braconnier?”
She has reason to dread it.
“No I don’t; not in the slightest. There’s a sickle too near his own—in the hands of the reaper, Death.”
“He’s dying, then?”
She speaks with an earnestness in which there is no feeling of compassion, but the very reverse.
“He is,” the other answers, in like unpitying tone; “I’ve just come from his bedside.”