Mr. Pendyce answered:
“Afternoon, Peacock. Why, your fields are first-rate for grass.”
They hastily turned their eyes away, for at that moment they could not bear to see each other.
There was a silence; then Peacock said:
“What about those gates of mine, Squire?” and his voice quavered, as though gratitude might yet get the better of him.
The Squire's irritable glance swept over the unfenced space to right and left, and the thought flashed through his mind:
'Suppose I were to give the beggar those gates, would he—would he let me enclose the Scotton again?'
He looked at that square, bearded man, and the infallible instinct, christened so wickedly by Mr. Paramor, guided him.
“What's wrong with your gates, man, I should like to know?”
Peacock looked at him full this time; there was no longer any quaver in his voice, but a sort of rough good-humour.