“He has not been allured by any girl in India. I have his positive assurance on that.”
Fishpingle made no reply. He was wondering whether his mistress could assign a reason for this indifference, a reason divined rather than known to himself. From the guileless expression of her face, he could draw no inference save this: that she was less guileless, where her own flesh and blood might be concerned, than she appeared. He waited patiently for further enlightenment. He perceived, moreover, that Lady Pomfret was in a rarely expansive mood.
Each sighed, thinking of necessary things left undone—sterile acres that cried aloud for fertilisers; farm-buildings falling into disrepair; grumbling tenants; the long, dreary catalogue of “wants” upon an impoverished estate.
“You have great influence with the Squire, Ben.”
She spoke with significance. Fishpingle smiled. The dear lady had sought him with a definite object in view, which she would reveal after her own fashion. In this case, it was revealed sooner than she had intended, for she “gave herself away” by allowing her eyes to linger upon the finest picture in the dining-room, a magnificent Sir Joshua, a full-length portrait of a Pomfret beauty. At once Fishpingle stiffened and became impassive.
Her feminine quickness of apprehension on such occasions as these always disconcerted him. He realised that he, in his turn, had “given himself away.”
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.”