The baronet chuckled, and sat down in his leather-bottomed chair before the fire. He lay back, exposing his generous paunch, and winked at his son over his shoulder.
“Richard will make a good son-in-law, Lot,” he observed.
“Jill will milk his pockets for him, sir.”
Sir Peter nodded and beamed greedily.
“And we’ll have some of the butter, Lot,” he said; “an easy mortgage would be deuced convenient. What does the young dog want with all his thousands lying idle? They would serve us better than they would him. We want a new coach and a new stud, and, damme, I should like a house in town again. Dick Jeffray’s a nice lad, Lot. When do you think of riding over to Rodenham?”
Mr. Hardacre yawned, stretched his legs, and looked cunningly at his father.
“This afternoon, sir,” he said, with a grin. “The old harridan thinks she has spoiled our sport, but I guess she has given us a great opportunity. I will put it to Mr. Richard like a brother. If he don’t see it in the sentimental light, sir, I’ll just do a little bullying.”
“And have Jill weeping over his grave!”
Mr. Lot laughed loudly and thumped his chest.
“You’ll do it all right, Lot,” said the baronet; “damme, you will.”