“How d’you mean?” asked Sir Richard.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cyril replied, “but it is never the same afterwards.” It was characteristic of him not to connect any mental process with a globe of flesh encircled by hats, so he spoke in his usual tone. “You never get the smell of money out afterwards, and it demoralises tenants worse than the plague. And what would you do with the stables?”
“He wants to buy the lot,” said Sir Richard.
“My dear fellow!” Cyril exclaimed, and then words failed him. “Here, come along and let’s see where the bottle imp has his lair. That foundation stone had your wits in it, I think.”
Mr. Joseph Price had been dancing with Evangeline and they were now sitting in the winter garden. “You’re living at Drage now, aren’t you?” he asked. “Rather a wretch’d sort of place, isn’t it? Not much to do there, what?” Evangeline looked at him in surprise. “What sort of things can’t you do?” she asked. “I should think you could do anything there is to do as well there as anywhere; unless you want to shoot bears or ride elephants.”
“I led the strainuous life there for a bit,” he replied. “I never was so f’d up in my life.”
“How long were you there?” Evangeline asked.
“Oh, on and off f’ three years in charge ’f a batt’ry.”
“And where did your battery go to?” She was full of interest.
“Well, ’n point ’f fact it stayed where ’t was,” he replied carelessly. “They’d had ’nough, you see, ’f sending out f’llers not prop’ly trained, and the f’llers they sent to us then weren’t fit t’ handle a catapult. H’wever, we pushed them off in th’ end.”