They sat down at the Cromwellian table, with the decanter between them. A full week had elapsed since Fishpingle’s confidential talk with Lady Pomfret, and, so far, the Squire had not spoken a word about Alfred and Prudence. Probably—so Fishpingle reflected—her ladyship had assured Sir Geoffrey that it was wiser to leave the young people alone. Upon the other and more important matter of selling the Reynolds Fishpingle had kept silence, biding the right opportunity. At this moment he wondered whether it was about to present itself. Sir Geoffrey harked back to his son. “He has six months’ leave, Ben.” “Good. Master Lionel will be back in India, by December.” Sir Geoffrey did not misunderstand this. “Pooh, pooh! He’s grown into a strong man.” “From the bottom of my heart I hope so.” Sir Geoffrey sipped his wine, glancing at Fishpingle out of the corner of his eye. He was growing ripe for confidences. He began blusterously: “Damn you, Ben, you’ve given me a nasty taste in the mouth. Master Lionel will make old bones. I feel that in _my_ bones. Enough of that. We must give him the welcome he deserves, but I could wish, for his sake, that we had more shots in the locker—what?” Fishpingle inclined his head. The opportunity had come. But he waited for the Squire to plunge deeper into his difficulties. “‘The little more, and—and——’” Fishpingle completed the quotation. “‘And how much it is; And the little less, and what miles away!’” “Yes, yes—what a memory you’ve got, Ben. “I forget these confounded jingles. Where were we? You’ve put me off with your rhymes.” “The empty locker,” suggested Fishpingle, sipping his wine. “Just so. A very few hundreds added to my shrinking income would make such an immense difference to this dear lad’s home-coming.” Fishpingle picked his way warily. “The income, for instance, from twenty thousand pounds.” “Tchah! Why do you jaw about specific sums? Twenty thousand pounds! Is such a sum as that likely to drop from heaven on me! Talk practical politics, you old ass. Can we scrape up a few tenners and fivers?” “You can put your hand on twenty thousand pounds, Sir Geoffrey.” Sir Geoffrey lay back in his chair, staring at his butler. “Are you going dotty, Ben?” “That particular sum hangs in the dining-room.” He leant forward, meeting the Squire’s eyes. For a moment the Squire failed to catch his meaning. When that meaning percolated to his marrow, he swore prodigiously, as our Army, long ago, was said to have sworn in Flanders. His glance become congested. With a gulp, he tossed off his wine. “There!” he spluttered, “you’ve made me choke over the best wine in the world. Sell the Sir Joshua, which, by the way, isn’t mine to sell? Sell the finest picture in the house? Dammy, you are mad. What d’ye mean, hay?” He glared fiercely at the one man living whom he could have sworn to be incapable of making such an amazing suggestion. Fishpingle paid no attention to his ebullition of indignation.