"Then what ought I to do?" asked the Squire grumpily. He knew what she meant, and hated the idea of it.
"Why, tell him that if he makes this marriage you won't leave him a penny more than you're obliged to."
"If I said that I should commit myself."
"You mean if you threatened it, you'd have to do it. Well, I think you would. Yours—ours, I should say—is one of the oldest families in England, and you are the head of it. You can't see it let down like that."
This was balm to the Squire, but it did not relieve the heaviness of his heart. "I believe I shall have to do something of that sort," he said, "or threaten it anyhow," and having arrived at the place for the next drive, he turned with a sigh to the business in hand.
The short winter day came to an end, and at dusk they found themselves on the edge of the park, after having shot the birds out of the last covert. They strolled home across the frosty grass, under the darkening sky already partly illumined by a round moon, merry or quiet, pleased or vexed with themselves, according to their several natures and the way they had acquitted themselves in the day's sport, and the warm, well-lighted house swallowed them up.
Joan and Nancy went up to their room. "You haven't been near me all the afternoon," said Nancy. "Here's half a crown from Humphrey. It's disappointing. Did you do any business with Uncle Herbert?"
For answer Joan burst out crying. "I hate all this beastly cadging for money," she said through her tears, "and I won't do it any more."
"Well, don't howl," said Nancy, "or you'll look awful when we go downstairs. What has happened?"
"Mr. Wilkinson gave me ten b—bob," sobbed Joan. "I didn't ask him for it. And then poor old Colonel Stacey thought he must do the same, so he took out a sh-shabby old purse and offered me another one, and I believe it was the only one in it. And I wouldn't take it."