“I could try. What bothers you?”
He burst into fluent speech. Ought he to chuck the army? His father had made a jest of it, but—facing disagreeable facts—was it not his duty to begin some sort of preparatory work to fit himself for a job he knew nothing about. Fellows like Bonsor were simply hopelessly out of date. Take the Home Farm—the Squire’s joy and pride. It was run at a loss. And all the tenant farmers needed “binging up.” The old order was doomed if it persisted in running things on old, worn-out lines. All this, and much more, he poured into Joyce’s attentive and sympathetic ears. When he paused for a second, she said quietly:
“What does Sir Geoffrey say?”
He laughed derisively.
“Father? I can’t talk with him about this. And, between ourselves, how can he talk with me, being the man he is? Every word I’ve said to you is an indictment of his policy and management. And I can’t talk with mother, either, because any criticism of his methods would hurt her horribly. I did talk to Tom Challoner. We’ve been stayin’ with ’em. Tom is in the same tight place, but he’s found a way out.”
“Captain Challoner must be cleverer than I gave him credit for. What is his way?”
“Dishonourable marriage.”
“Oh-h-h!”
“All the same, his way doesn’t seem dishonourable to him. And from his point of view, mind you, if he marries money to save the old place it is a sacrifice. But he doesn’t think of the girl at all.”
“Do men think of a girl, as a rule?”