“You can do more than any of us, Mrs. Pendyce, both with George and with this man Bellew—and, if I am not mistaken, with his wife.”
The Squire broke in:
“Don't think that I'll have any humble pie eaten to that fellow Bellew!”
The look Mr. Paramor gave him at those words, was like that of a doctor diagnosing a disease. Yet there was nothing in the expression of the Squire's face with its thin grey whiskers and moustache, its twist to the left, its swan-like eyes, decided jaw, and sloping brow, different from what this idea might bring on the face of any country gentleman.
Mrs. Pendyce said eagerly
“Oh, Mr. Paramor, if I could only see George!”
She longed so for a sight of her son that her thoughts carried her no further.
“See him!” cried the Squire. “You'll go on spoiling him till he's disgraced us all!”
Mrs. Pendyce turned from her husband to his solicitor. Excitement had fixed an unwonted colour in her cheeks; her lips twitched as if she wished to speak.
Mr. Paramor answered for her: