Penhallow by Georgette Heyer

when that gentleman called to beg a donation for the poor of the parish, or for the renovations to the Church; and generally behave as though he were a sort of Midas to whom gold was no sort of object. It amused him to compel Raymond to keep him supplied with money, which he did by threatening to send Jimmy the Bastard to the Bank in Bodmin with his cheque, if his disapproving heir refused to perform the errand.
    Raymond had one of these scrawled cheques in his pocket as he left the house after his morning’s interview with his parent. These daily meetings seldom passed without friction, but this one had been stormier than most. Raymond, going straight from the breakfast-table to his father’s room, had found Penhallow in a smouldering rage, shouting abuse at old Martha, who had just finished tidying the room. His eyes had gleamed at sight of his son, and he had lost no time in trying to pick a quarrel with him. Eugene would have diverted his wrath with his nimble tongue; Ingram, or either of the twins, would have gratified him by losing their tempers, and shouting back at him with a complete lack of filial respect, or self-control; Raymond merely stood before the fire, with his feet wide-planted, the first three fingers of either square hand thrust into the slit pockets in the front of his whipcord breeches, and a heavy scowl on his face. Nothing could have annoyed Penhallow more than his invariable refusal to be goaded into fury.
    ‘Dumb, are you?’ he roared, heaving himself up in his bed. ‘You sulky young hound, if you’d the spirit of a louse you’d find your tongue quick enough!’
    ‘When you’ve quite finished,’ Raymond had said coldly, ‘you can take a look at that lot!’
    He jerked his head towards the ledgers he had placed on the table beside the bed, but he did not move from his position before the fire. Penhallow sneered at him. ‘I ought to have made you into a damned accountant! I don’t doubt you’d have been happy to have spent your life totting up columns of figures!’
    As this taunt had no visible effect upon Raymond, he passed to a wholesale criticism of his management of the estate, and ended by remarking that he had heard from Ingram that the Demon colt was likely to prove a failure. Ingram had said nothing of the sort, but the shaft served to bring a flush to Raymond’s cheeks. He replied briefly: ‘I’ve got a hit.’
    Penhallow at once forgot that he wanted to enrage his son. His brows drew together. ‘A hit, eh? Well! Early days yet. Got his sire’s shoulders?’
    ‘Grand shoulder-blade and forearm. Powerful quarters; hocks well-bent; stifles high and wide,’ Raymond responded.
    ‘Back?’ Penhallow shot at him. ‘Out with it! I remember thinking, when I saw his dam— —’
    ‘Short above and long below,’ interrupted Raymond, the corners of his mouth lifting.
    Penhallow grunted. ‘I’ll take a look at him. Got him out yet?"
    ‘I’ve had him out a couple of weeks now.’
    ‘Where?’ Penhallow demanded.
    ‘The Upper Paddock.’
    ‘Good! How many have you put with him?’
    ‘Three others.’
    Penhallow nodded. ‘Quite right. Never have more than four yearlings to a paddock.’ He looked Raymond over. ‘Bred him for selling, I suppose?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘God, I don’t know where you get your huckstering instinct from!’
    Raymond shrugged, and was silent. Penhallow’s ill humour descended upon him again. He bethought him of a piece of news likely to find no sort of favour with his grim-faced heir. He informed him casually of his plans for Clay.
    That did rouse Raymond, if not to an exhibition of Penhallow rage, at least to a considerable degree of annoyance. It seemed to him poor economy to remove Clay from college before the expiration of his three years there; it exasperated him to be obliged to stand by while his father laid down a substantial sum of money to buy Clay into a firm which he would infallibly leave the instant Penhallow was underground; and in