"You're a good child to say so," said the Squire; "but I can't go back at present. When I think of that place going out of the family, I feel like an unfaithful steward. It was committed to me to keep and to hand on intact to my boy, and I've lost him his inheritance. You none of you know what it means; but I can't go back—not at present."
"May I write and tell mother where you are?"
"No; she writes to me to the Carlton—I'm all right; don't you worry about me, pet."
"You don't look all right—you look very ill."
"See here, Nora, don't you write home and tell them that—promise."
The Squire's manner grew quite fierce. He looked at Nora out of his bloodshot eyes. "Promise," he said. "I won't have it done—do you hear?"
"No, father, of course I won't if it vexes you."
"It does, my child, it does," the Squire's manner became tenderer than ever. "I'm worried and in trouble at present, and I am best alone; I am best all by myself for a bit. God knows, I suppose I shall pull round after a bit, and face you all—that poor boy whom I've ruined, and the rest of you—but I must get time—that's only reasonable—I must get time. Now I'm off; I'm glad to see you looking well, Nora."
"But you'll come and see me again, father; you promise, do promise that you'll come and see me again."
"Yes, my child, if you wish it."