“Wy, the 'arf o' them's as rotten as matchwood!” he said; and he took a breath of relief, for he knew that gratitude was dead within his soul.
“Well, I wish mine at the home farm were half as good. Come, John!” and, touching the mare with his heel, Mr. Pendyce turned; but before he had gone a dozen paces he was back.
“Mrs. Peacock well, I hope? Mrs. Pendyce has gone up to London.”
And touching his hat, without waiting for Peacock's answer, he rode away. He took the lane past Peacock's farm across the home paddocks, emerging on the cricket-ground, a field of his own which he had caused to be converted.
The return match with Coldingham was going on, and, motionless on his horse, the Squire stopped to watch. A tall figure in the “long field” came leisurely towards him. It was the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow. Mr. Pendyce subdued an impulse to turn the mare and ride away.
“We're going to give you a licking, Squire! How's Mrs. Pendyce? My wife sent her love.”
On the Squire's face in the full sun was more than the sun's flush.
“Thanks,” he said, “she's very well. She's gone up to London.”
“And aren't you going up yourself this season?”
The Squire crossed those leisurely eyes with his own.