Peter was silent.
“Oh, I know there’s a lot to be said against getting married, but in your position—heir to a title and a big estate—it’s really a duty. I married directly my father died. But don’t you wait for that—you’re getting on.”
“But who am I to marry? There’s not such a lot of rich girls round here.”
“You’ll soon find one if you make up your mind to it. My plan is first make up your mind to get married and then look for the girl—not the other way round, which is what most men do, and leads to all kinds of trouble. Of course I know it isn’t always convenient. But what’s your special objection? Any entanglement? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I know there’s often a little woman in the way.”
Peter squirmed at his father’s Victorian ideas of dissipation with their “little women.” He’d be talking of “French dancers” next....
“I haven’t any entanglement, Sir.”
“Then you take my words to heart. I don’t ask you to marry for money, but marry where money is, as Shakespeare or somebody said.”
§ 6
Peter found a refreshing solitude in the early hours of the next day. His mother and Doris breakfasted upstairs, his father had characteristically kept his promise to “be about tomorrow,” and had actually ridden out before Peter appeared in the morning room at nine. Jenny, who was a lazy young woman, did not come down till he had finished, and Gervase, in one of those spasms of eccentricity which made Peter sometimes a little ashamed of him, had gone without breakfast altogether, and driven off in the Ford lorry to fetch his luggage, sustained by an apple.
The morning room was full of early sunlight—dim as yet, for the mists were still rising from the Tillingham valley and shredding slowly into the sky. The woods and farms beyond the river were hidden in the same soft cloud. Peter opened the window, and felt the December rasp in the air. Oh, it was good to be back in this place, and one with it now, the heir.... No longer the second son who must live away from home and make his money in business.... He stifled the disloyalty to his dead brother. Poor old Hugh, who was so solemn and so solid and so upright.... But Hugh had never loved the place as he did—he had never been both transported and abased by his honour of inheritance.