He raised his head.
"Ah, Barter! How's your wife?"
"Doing as well as can be expected."
"Glad to hear that! A fine constitution--wonderful vitality. Port or
claret?"
"Thanks; just a glass of port."
"Very trying for your nerves. I know what it is. We're different from
the last generation; they thought nothing of it. When Charles was born
my dear old father was out hunting all day. When my wife had George, it
made me as nervous as a cat!"
The Squire stopped, then hurriedly added:
"But you're so used to it."
Mr. Barter frowned.
"I was passing Coldingham to-day," he said. "I saw Winlow. He asked
after you."
"Ah! Winlow! His wife's a very nice woman. They've only the one child, I
think?"
The Rector winced.
"Winlow tells me," he said abruptly, "that George has sold his horse."
The Squire's face changed. He glanced suspiciously at Mr. Barter, but
the Rector was looking at his glass.
"Sold his horse! What's the meaning of that? He told you why, I
suppose?"
The Rector drank off his wine.
"I never ask for reasons," he said, "where racing-men are concerned.
It's my belief they know no more what they're about than so many dumb
animals."
"Ah! racing-men!" said Mr. Pendyce. "But George doesn't bet."
A gleam of humour shot into the Rector's eyes.
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