Her feminine quickness of apprehension on such occasions as these always disconcerted him. He realised that he, in his turn, had “given himself away.” “Sell that? Never, my lady.” She shrugged her shoulders, regarding him ironically, reflecting with ever-increasing amazement that long service with the Pomfrets had positively turned him into a Pomfret, that he had become blind, like his master, to what was so crystal clear to her—the necessity of sacrifice, of lopping off superabundant growth to save a splendid tree. “It is worth twenty thousand pounds, Ben.” He remained silent. Undismayed, she tried again. “That outlying strip of building property, eh? Would it be missed?” Fishpingle grunted. It was futile to discuss such matters with a Belwether. Everybody knew that their estates had melted away by just such a process of constant disintegration. He said vehemently: “Your ladyship knows that the most valuable pictures are heirlooms.” “That could be got over with Master Lionel’s consent.” So, she had taken expert opinion! A sweet lady, but a crafty. “All the land is strictly entailed.” “So you have told me before, but that, too, could be arranged, if the necessity of breaking the entailment were made plain.” Fishpingle let himself go. To the amusement of his mistress, he became for the moment the Squire, using the Squire’s familiar gestures, taking words often in his mouth. “My lady, Sir Geoffrey may be right about this, or he may be wrong, but what he inherited from his father cannot be sold. He will pass it on to his son. That is part of his religion.” “And yours?” The sharp question, so quietly spoken, took him aback. She continued quickly: “You feel as he does about this supremely important matter, but why—why? That is a mystery to me. I can understand his feelings about his own property, not yours. Have you no sense of detachment, Ben? Can you not see, as I see, the issues involved?” Her voice faltered. Fishpingle became acutely distressed. He said entreatingly: “My lady, I would do anything, anything, to serve you and yours, but not this one thing. It would mean the beginning of the end. Every Pomfret before Sir Guy added to this property till it became what it is. You know that the Squire would give his right hand if he, too, would carry on the family tradition and buy, not sell. As for the issues involved, I think I see them plainly. Sir Geoffrey sees them. He does not shrink from them. Nor do you, I know.” “Ah! you don’t quite know, but go on.” “Expenses must be cut down. Economy in management, better organisation and better prices, which must come, will pull us through.” She retorted sombrely: “Better prices may not come, and my son is coming home.” “Master Lionel, my lady, will think as his father thinks.” “Ben, you make things hard for me.”