“Yes, yes, my dear—­yes, but there is not much to tell you.  Janter has thrown up the farm after all, and George says that there is not another tenant to be had for love or money.  He tried one man, who said that he would not have it at five shillings an acre, as prices are.”

“That is bad enough in all conscience,” said Ida, pushing at the fireirons with her foot.  “What is to be done?”

“What is to be done?” answered her father irritably.  “How can I tell you what is to be done?  I suppose I must take the place in hand, that is all.”

“Yes, but that costs money, does it not?”

“Of course it does, it costs about four thousand pounds.”

“Well,” said Ida, looking up, “and where is all that sum to come from?  We have not got four thousand pounds in the world.”

“Come from?  Why I suppose that I must borrow it on the security of the land.”

“Would it not be better to let the place go out of cultivation, rather than risk so much money?” she answered.

“Go out of cultivation!  Nonsense, Ida, how can you talk like that?  Why that strong land would be ruined for a generation to come.”

“Perhaps it would, but surely it would be better that the land should be ruined than that we should be.  Father, dear,” she said appealingly, laying one hand upon his shoulder, “do be frank with me, and tell me what our position really is.  I see you wearing yourself out about business from day to day, and I know that there is never any money for anything, scarcely enough to keep the house going; and yet you will not tell me what we really owe—­and I think I have a right to know.”

The Squire turned impatiently.  “Girls have no head for these things,” he said, “so what is the use of talking about it?”

“But I am not a girl; I am a woman of six-and-twenty; and putting other things aside, I am almost as much interested in your affairs as you are yourself,” she said with determination.  “I cannot bear this sort of thing any longer.  I see that abominable man, Mr. Quest, continually hovering about here like a bird of ill-omen, and I cannot bear it; and I tell you what it is, father, if you don’t tell me the whole truth at once I shall cry,” and she looked as though she meant it.

Now the old Squire was no more impervious to a woman’s tears than any other man, and of all Ida’s moods, and they were many, he most greatly feared that rare one which took the form of tears.  Besides, he loved his only daughter more dearly than anything in the world except one thing, Honham Castle, and could not bear to give her pain.

“Very well,” he said, “of course if you wish to know about these things you have a right to.  I have desired to spare you trouble, that is all; but as you are so very imperious, the best thing that I can do is to let you have your own way.  Still, as it is rather late, if you have no objection I think that I had better put if off till to-morrow.”