“The plans! What plans?” said Mr. Cope, in astonishment. “You forget that I’m altogether in the dark.”
“Why, what plans could I mean but the plans for my new house?” cried the squire, as he refilled his glass. “I thought I had told you all about it weeks ago.”
“This is the first time you have ever hinted at such a thing. But you don’t mean to say that you are going to pull down Pincote!”
“I mean to say nothing of the kind,” said the squire, peevishly. “But, for all that, I may be allowed to build myself a new house if I choose to do so, I suppose?”
“Certainly—certainly,” said the banker, with a look of deprecation.
“I know what you think.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I say, sir, that I know what you think,” repeated the squire, with half-sober vehemence. “You think that because I’ve reduced my balance during the last six months from nine thousand pounds to somewhere about three thousand, and because I’ve sold all my stocks and securities, that I’ve been making ducks and drakes of my money, and don’t know what I’m about. But you never made a greater mistake in your life, Horatio Cope.”
“You do me a great injustice, my dear squire. No such thought ever entered my mind.”
“Don’t tell me. I know what you bankers are.”