“You have been guilty of indelicacy!” This indictment had a wriggling sting, and lost no venom from the fact that he could in no wise have perceived where the indelicacy of his conduct lay.  But he did not try to perceive it.  Against himself, clergyman and gentleman, the monstrosity of the charge was clear.  This was a point of morality.  He felt no anger against George; it was the woman that excited his just wrath.  For so long he had been absolute among women, with the power, as it were, over them of life and death.  This was flat immorality!  He had never approved of her leaving her husband; he had never approved of her at all!  He turned his steps towards the Firs.

From above the hedges the sleepy cows looked down; a yaffle laughed a field or two away; in the sycamores, which had come out before their time, the bees hummed.  Under the smile of the spring the innumerable life of the fields went carelessly on around that square black figure ploughing along the lane with head bent down under a wide-brimmed hat.

George Pendyce, in a fly drawn by an old grey horse, the only vehicle that frequented the station at Worsted Skeynes, passed him in the lane, and leaned back to avoid observation.  He had not forgotten the tone of the Rector’s voice in the smoking-room on the night of the dance.  George was a man who could remember as well as another.  In the corner of the old fly, that rattled and smelled of stables and stale tobacco, he fixed his moody eyes on the driver’s back and the ears of the old grey horse, and never stirred till they set him down at the hall door.

He went at once to his room, sending word that he had come for the night.  His mother heard the news with feelings of joy and dread, and she dressed quickly for dinner, that she might see him the sooner.  The Squire came into her room just as she was going down.  He had been engaged all day at Sessions, and was in one of the moods of apprehension as to the future which but seldom came over him.

“Why didn’t you keep Vigil to dinner?” he said.  “I could have given him things for the night.  I wanted to talk to him about insuring my life; he knows, about that.  There’ll be a lot of money wanted, to pay my death-duties.  And if the Radicals get in I shouldn’t be surprised if they put them up fifty per cent.”

“I wanted to keep him,” said Mrs. Pendyce, “but he went away without saying good-bye.”

“He’s an odd fellow!”

For some moments Mr. Pendyce made reflections on this breach of manners.  He had a nice standard of conduct in all social affairs.

“I’m having trouble with that man Peacock again.  He’s the most pig-headed——­What are you in such a hurry for, Margery?”

“George is here!”

“George?  Well, I suppose he can wait till dinner.  I have a lot of things I want to tell you about.  We had a case of arson to-day.  Old Quarryman was away, and I was in the chair.  It was that fellow Woodford that we convicted for poaching—­a very gross case.  And this is what he does when he comes out.  They tried to prove insanity.  It’s the rankest case of revenge that ever came before me.  We committed him, of course.  He’ll get a swinging sentence.  Of all dreadful crimes, arson is the most——­”