CHAPTER VIII
EXPLANATORY
About two o'clock Geoffrey rose, and with some slight assistance from
his reverend host, struggled into his clothes. Then he lunched, and
while he did so Mr. Granger poured his troubles into his sympathetic
ear.
"My father was a Herefordshire farmer, Mr. Bingham," he said, "and I was
bred up to that line of life myself. He did well, my father did, as
in those days a careful man might. What is more, he made some money by
cattle-dealing, and I think that turned his head a little; anyway, he
was minded to make 'a gentleman of me,' as he called it. So when I was
eighteen I was packed off to be made a parson of, whether I liked it or
no. Well, I became a parson, and for four years I had a curacy at a
town called Kingston, in Herefordshire, not a bad sort of little
town--perhaps you happen to know it. While I was there, my father,
who was getting beyond himself, took to speculating. He built a row of
villas at Leominster, or at least he lent a lawyer the money to build
them, and when they were built nobody would hire them. It broke my
father; he was ruined over those villas.
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