“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in the Squire impatiently.

“Oh, why not?” said Ida, in bitter sarcasm.  “Mr. Cossey knows it is a good argument.  I presume, Mr. Cossey, that as a preliminary to the renewal of our engagement, the persecution of my father which is being carried on by your lawyers will cease?”

“Absolutely.”

“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of course be called in?”

“My lawyers advise that it should be,” he answered sullenly; “but see here, Ida, you may make your own terms about money.  Marriage, after all, is very much a matter of bargaining, and I am not going to stand out about the price.”

“You are really most generous,” went on Ida in the same bitter tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he understood her mood better than did her lover.  “I only regret that I cannot appreciate such generosity more than I do.  But it is at least in my power to give you the return which you deserve.  So I can no longer hesitate, but once and for all——­”

She stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as though she saw a ghost.  Both her father and Edward Cossey followed the motion of her eyes, and this was what they saw.  Up the steps came Colonel Quaritch and George.  Both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at least clean.  As for George, this could not be said.  His head was still adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of encrusted filth.

“What the dickens——­” began the Squire, and at that moment George, who was leading, knocked at the door.

“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire; “don’t you see that we are engaged?”

“But we must come in, Squire, begging your pardon,” answered George, with determination, as he opened the door; “we’ve got that to say as won’t keep.”

“I tell you that it must keep, sir,” said the old gentleman, working himself into a rage.  “Am I not to be allowed a moment’s privacy in my own house?  I wonder at your conduct, Colonel Quaritch, in forcing your presence upon me when I tell you that it is not wanted.”

“I am sure that I apologise, Mr. de la Molle,” began the Colonel, utterly taken aback, “but what I have to say is——­”

“The best way that you can apologise is by withdrawing,” answered the Squire with majesty.  “I shall be most happy to hear what you have to say on another occasion.”

“Oh, Squire, Squire, don’t be such a fule, begging your pardon for the word,” said George, in exasperation.  “Don’t you go a-knocking of your head agin a brick wall.”

“Will you be off, sir?” roared his master in a voice that made the walls shake.

By this time Ida had recovered herself.  She seemed to feel that her lover had something to say which concerned her deeply—­probably she read it in his eyes.

“Father,” she said, raising her voice, “I won’t have Colonel Quaritch turned away from the door like this.  If you will not admit him I will go outside and hear what it is that he has to say.”