The squire was sitting in his big armchair in front of the fire reading Marius the Epicurean, and trying to compose his nerves, which still vibrated unpleasantly after all the fuss about the shilling. He had even quoted to himself somewhat testily something about "fugitive things not good to treasure"; but whether he referred to the nimbly disappearing shilling, or to the protestations of Grantly and Mary, was not clear. He generally solaced himself with Pater when perturbed, and he had nearly persuaded himself that he was once more nearly attuned to "perfect tone, fresh and serenely disposed of the Roman Gentleman," when Ger opened the door, and walked over towards him without shutting it—an unpardonable offence at any time.
"Gervais," exclaimed the squire, and his tone was the reverse of serene, "Why are you not in the schoolroom? What on earth do you want?"
Ger went back and shut the door carefully and quietly, and once more crossed the room till he stood directly in front of his father. The squire noted with a little pang of compunction how pale the child was. "What is it?" he said more gently.
"Father, I've come about that shilling. I took it."
"You took it," exclaimed the squire in amazement. "Why?"
Here was a poser. Ger was so absolutely unused to lying that he was quite unprepared for any such question as this, so he was silent.
"Why did you take it?" angrily reiterated his father. "And what have you done with it? Answer at once. You know perfectly well that it is a most shocking breach of good manners to ignore a question in this fashion."
"I took it," repeated Ger stupidly, his large grey eyes looking into space beyond his father.
"So I hear," said the squire, growing more and more annoyed. "But why did you take it? and where have you put it?"
"I can't tell you, father," said Ger firmly, and this time he met his father's eyes unflinchingly. To himself he said, "I won't tell more'n one lie for mother's sake."