The goldsmith idled over the words as though they were fat morsels of flattery, and Igraine had never seen him look so eminently happy before. She understood quite well that Gorlois’s move had inspired him into complete and glowing partisanship, and that she was to have those sage words of advice that young folk love so much. Radamanth climbed down, meanwhile, to material things, and began to knock off Gorlois’s possessions in practical fashion on his fingers.
“A grand match,” he said. "There are the castles in Cornwall—Terabil and Tintagel; the lands in Gore and elsewhere; the palace in London; and the great house here by the river. In Logria he has lands, I have heard,—miles of fat pastures, woods, and many manors, lying towards the great oaks of Brederwode. The man is as rich as any in Britain, and if death took Ambrosius or Uther—"
Igraine cut in upon his verbosity.
“What did you tell him, uncle?”
Radamanth stared at her, with his fingers still figuring.
“Tell him, child?”
“Yes.”
“What a thing to ask. Of course I promised to further his cause with you in every way possible. I said we should soon need the priest.”
Igraine groaned in spirit.
“It is all useless,” she said.