“You really must think about it now,” he continued—“you’re the heir; and of course you know—we want money.”
Peter did not speak.
“We want money abominably,” said Sir John, “in fact I don’t know how we’re to carry on much longer without it. I don’t want to have to sell land—indeed, it’s practically impossible, all trussed up as we are. Starvecrow could go, of course, but it’s useful for grazing and timber.”
“You’re not thinking of selling Starvecrow?”
“I don’t want to—we’ve had it nearly two hundred years; it was the first farm that Giles Alard bought. But it’s also the only farm we’ve got in this district that isn’t tied—there’s a mortgage on the grazings down by the stream, but the house is free, with seventy acres.”
“It would be a shame to let it go.”
Peter was digging into the salt-cellar with his dessert knife.
“Well, I rely on you to help me keep it. Manage the estate well and marry money.”
“You’re damn cynical, Sir. Got any especial—er—money in your mind?”
“No, no—of course not. But you ought to get married at your age, and you might as well marry for the family’s advantage as well as your own.”