Mrs. Pendyce bit deeper into her lips.
“Whatever he has done,” she said, “George is sure to have behaved like a gentleman!”
An angry smile twisted the Squire's mouth.
“Just like a woman!” he said.
But the smile died away, and on both their faces came a helpless look. Like people who have lived together without real sympathy—though, indeed, they had long ceased to be conscious of that—now that something had occurred in which their interests were actually at one, they were filled with a sort of surprise. It was no good to differ. Differing, even silent differing, would not help their son.
“I shall write to George,” said Mr. Pendyce at last. “I shall believe nothing till I've heard from him. He'll tell us the truth, I suppose.”
There was a quaver in his voice.
Mrs. Pendyce answered quickly:
“Oh, Horace, be careful what you say! I'm sure he is suffering!”
Her gentle soul, disposed to pleasure, was suffering, too, and the tears stole up in her eyes. Mr. Pendyce's sight was too long to see them. The infirmity had been growing on him ever since his marriage.