“You never answered his letter, dear,” she said.
The Squire put his back against the sideboard; his stiff figure, with lean neck and angry eyes, whose pupils were mere pin-points, had a certain dignity.
“Nothing shall induce me!” he said, and his voice was harsh and strong, as though he spoke for something bigger than himself. “I've thought it over all the morning, and I'm d—d if I do! The man is a ruffian. I won't knuckle under to him!”
Mrs. Pendyce clasped her hands.
“Oh, Horace,” she said; “but for the sake of us all! Only just give him that assurance.”
“And let him crow over me!” cried the Squire. “By Jove, no!”
“But, Horace, I thought that was what you wanted George to do. You wrote to him and asked him to promise.”
The Squire answered:
“You know nothing about it, Margery; you know nothing about me. D'you think I'm going to tell him that his wife has thrown my son over—let him keep me gasping like a fish all this time, and then get the best of it in the end? Not if I have to leave the county—not if I——”
But, as though he had imagined the most bitter fate of all, he stopped.