In the Times that morning there was a report of a case in the north, a landowner fined L100, for letting a farm go to waste for the game’s sake.  And Miss Bremerton had been holding up the like fate to him that morning—­because of Holme Wood.  A woman of parts that!—­too clever!—­a disputatious creature, whom a man would like to put down.  But it wasn’t easy; she slipped out of your grip—­gave you unexpected tits for tats.  One would have thought after that business with the will, she would be anxious to make up—­to show docility.  In such a relation one expected docility.  But not a bit of it!  She grew bolder.  The Squire admitted uncomfortably that it was his own fault—­only, in fact, what he deserved for making a land-agent, accountant, and legal adviser out of a poor lady who had merely engaged herself to be his private secretary for classical purposes.

All the same he confessed that she had never yet neglected the classical side of her duties.  His thoughts contrasted the library and the collections as they were now, with what they had been a couple of months before.  Now he knew where books could be found; now one could see the precious things he possessed.  Her taste—­her neatness—­her diligence—­nothing could beat them.  And she moved so quietly—­had so light a foot—­and always a pleasant voice and smile.  Oh yes, she had been a great catch—­an astonishing catch—­no doubt of that.  All the same he was not going to be entirely governed by her!  And again he thought complacently of the weak places in her scholarship—­the very limited extent of her reading—­compared to his.  ‘By Zeus!—­[Greek:  ei pot’ estin]—­if it weren’t for that, I should never keep the whip-hand of her at all!’

She had made a forlorn attempt again, that morning, to dissuade him from the park adventure.  But there he drew the line.  For there really was a line, though he admitted it might be difficult to see, considering all that he was shovelling upon her.  He had been very short—­perhaps she would say, very rude—­with her.  Well, it couldn’t be helped!  When she saw what he was really prepared to face, she would at least respect him.  And if he was shut up, she could get on with the catalogue, and keep things going.

Altogether the Squire was above himself.  The tonic air and scents of the autumn, the crisp leaves underfoot, the slight frost on the ruts, helped his general intoxication.  He, the supposed scholar and recluse, was about to play a part—­a rattling part.  The eye of England would be upon him!  He already tasted the prison fare, and found it quite tolerable.

As to Desmond—­

But the thought of him no sooner crossed the Squire’s mind than he dismissed it.  Or rather it survived far within, as a volcanic force, from which the outer froth and ferment drew half its strength.  He was being forcibly dispossessed of Desmond, just as he was being forcibly dispossessed of his farms and his park; or of his money, swallowed up in monstrous income tax.