One bright cold morning she was walking with her father through the fields down on the foot-path that led to the church, and it would have been hard to say which of the two looked the paler or the more miserable.  On the previous day the Squire had seen Mr. Quest and made as much of an appeal ad misericordiam to him as his pride would allow, only to find the lawyer very courteous, very regretful, but hard as adamant.  Also that very morning a letter had reached him from London announcing that the last hope of raising money to meet the mortgages had failed.

The path ran along towards the road past a line of oaks.  Half-way down this line they came across George, who, with his marking instrument in his hand, was contemplating some of the trees which it was proposed to take down.

“What are you doing there?” said the Squire, in a melancholy voice.

“Marking, Squire.”

“Then you may as well save yourself the trouble, for the place will belong to somebody else before the sap is up in those oaks.”

“Now, Squire, don’t you begin to talk like that, for I don’t believe it.  That ain’t a-going to happen.”

“Ain’t a-going to happen, you stupid fellow, ain’t a-going to happen,” answered the Squire with a dreary laugh.  “Why, look there,” and he pointed to a dog-cart which had drawn up on the road in such a position that they could see it without its occupants seeing them; “they are taking notes already.”

George looked and so did Ida.  Mr. Quest was the driver of the dog-cart, which he had pulled up in such a position as to command a view of the Castle, and his companion—­in whom George recognised a well-known London auctioneer who sometimes did business in these parts—­was standing up, an open notebook in his hand, alternately looking at the noble towers of the gateway and jotting down memoranda.

“Damn ’em, and so they be,” said George, utterly forgetting his manners.

Ida looked up and saw her father’s eyes fixed firmly upon her with an expression that seemed to say, “See, you wilful woman, see the ruin that you have brought upon us!”

She turned away; she could not bear it, and that very night she came to a determination, which in due course was communicated to Harold, and him alone.  That determination was to let things be for the present, upon the chance of something happening by means of which the dilemma might be solved.  But if nothing happened—­and indeed it did not seem probable to her that anything would happen—­then she would sacrifice herself at the last moment.  She believed, indeed she knew, that she could always call Edward Cossey back to her if she liked.  It was a compromise, and like all compromises had an element of weakness; but it gave time, and time to her was like breath to the dying.

“Sir,” said George presently, “it’s Boisingham Quarter Sessions the day after to-morrow, ain’t it?” (Mr. de la Molle was chairman of Quarter Sessions.)