At the Hall the long French windows of the dining-room were open; the Squire was sitting there alone, brooding sadly above the remnants of the fruit he had been eating. Flanking him on either wall hung a silent company, the effigies of past Pendyces; and at the end, above the oak and silver of the sideboard, the portrait of his wife was looking at them under lifted brows, with her faint wonder.
He raised his head.
“Ah, Barter! How's your wife?”
“Doing as well as can be expected.”
“Glad to hear that! A fine constitution—wonderful vitality. Port or claret?”
“Thanks; just a glass of port.”
“Very trying for your nerves. I know what it is. We're different from the last generation; they thought nothing of it. When Charles was born my dear old father was out hunting all day. When my wife had George, it made me as nervous as a cat!”
The Squire stopped, then hurriedly added:
“But you're so used to it.”
Mr. Barter frowned.