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ts. Every millimetre indeed! And with his old-fashioned,
rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out
of date than bag wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine
old feathers.
They discussed the collieries. Clifford’s idea was, that his
coal, even the poor sort, could be made into hard concen-
trated fuel that would burn at great heat if fed with certain
damp, acidulated air at a fairly strong pressure. It had long
been observed that in a particularly strong, wet wind the pit-
bank burned very vivid, gave off hardly any fumes, and left
a fine powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel.
’But where will you find the proper engines for burning
your fuel?’ asked Winter.
’I’ll make them myself. And I’ll use my fuel myself. And
I’ll sell electric power. I’m certain I could do it.’
’If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy.
Haw! Splendid! If I can be of any help, I shall be delight-
ed. I’m afraid I am a little out of date, and my collieries are
like me. But who knows, when I’m gone, there may be men
like you. Splendid! It will employ all the men again, and
you won’t have to sell your coal, or fail to sell it. A splendid
idea, and I hope it will be a success. If I had sons of my own,
no doubt they would have up-to-date ideas for Shipley: no
doubt! By the way, dear boy, is there any foundation to the
rumour that we may entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby?’
’Is there a rumour?’ asked Clifford.
’Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked me,
that’s all I can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldn’t re-
peat it for the world, if there were no foundation.’

1 Lady Chatterly’s Lover