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“We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve got a very sweet way.”

“That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?”

Pardoner choked. Then—

“I’m sure,” he said stiffly, “it would have been your guardian’s——”

“—and your uncle’s——”

“—wish that we should live at Palfrey.”

“Is there any reason why we should consider his wishes?”

“Hang it,” said Virgil. “The old fellow’s left us six hundred thousand.”

“And blighted our lives.”

“Oh, not ‘blighted,’ ” said Pardoner. “You can’t blight three hundred thousand quid. You can make it a bit sticky, but you can’t blight a sum like that. It’s—it’s invulnerable.”

“I was speaking of our lives,” said Miss Vulliamy. “Not our legacies.”

“Same thing,” said Pardoner comfortably, passing a somewhat rugged sculpture across the table. “Same thing. You see. The two are indistinguishable. Supposing another Will turned up, leaving the lot to me.” Sarah shuddered. “Exactly. Your life would become a blank—same as your bank balance.”