“Heirlooms, very valuable heirlooms, can be sold, Sir Geoffrey, under certain conditions.” The Squire exploded again. “This is the limit. You’ve thought of this—you—_you_! I supposed, dash it! that you were drawing a bow at a venture, firing into the ‘brown.’ Not a bit of it! You really mean it.” Fishpingle bowed. “It’s a deliberate suggestion. Why not put a halter about my lady, and sell her at auction in Salisbury market-place? Ha—ha! Why not start an old curiosity shop with the family plate and furniture? We should do a roarin’ trade. However, there it is. You’re not a Pomfret. We might sell some land, hay?” “Yes. That outlying strip—for building purposes.” “My God! The man _is_ dotty.” His old master looked so genuinely concerned and distressed that Fishpingle melted. His voice quavered; he held out his hands entreatingly. “Sir Geoffrey, I know how you feel. We were boys together. I am, I hope, part of the family, and as—as proud of it as you are. But this—this sacrifice would put things right for you—and Master Lionel.” “Much you know about him,” the Squire growled out, “if you think he would be a party to such a—a violation, yes, violation, of all our traditions. Not another word!” He raised his hand peremptorily. “I shall overlook this outrageous suggestion, Ben, because you mean well—you mean well. I lost my temper, I admit it, because I thought you knew me, through and through, and shared my feelings about this property and what goes with it, which, mark you, is a sacred trust for which—a—I deem myself _a_ccountable. Finish your wine, man!” Fishpingle drained his glass. “Now”—the Squire’s voice rang out cheerily—“we will forget all this. I’ve another toast. Fill your glass and mine. We’ll drink it standing.” Fishpingle obeyed his instructions. The two men stood up. Sir Geoffrey laughed, as he held up his glass. “The toast, Ben, is worthy of the wine. I give you: Master Lionel’s wife!” Fishpingle nearly dropped his glass. “What!” he exclaimed. “Is Master Lionel married?” The Squire chuckled. “Had you there, Ben. You rose like a fat trout at a May-fly. I give the toast again: Master Lionel’s future wife!” “He’s found her?” “Not yet, but I think I have. Drink, man, drink.” Fishpingle repeated the words of the toast. “Master Lionel’s future wife.” The Squire added firmly: “May God bless her and her children!” “May God bless her and her children!” The toast was drunk, and the men sat down again. The Squire chuckled as he went on sipping his port. His face radiated good humour and happy expectations. He lowered his voice and his glass. “Now, Ben, I am going to tell you something. I met the other day a most charming young lady, a dasher, sir, a dasher, clean bred, in the Stud Book, best stock in the kingdom, pretty, intelligent, and an heiress. Better still, she has no big place of her own.” “Might I ask the name Sir Geoffrey?” “Lady Margot Maltravers, the late Lord Beaumanoir’s only child.”