It was she who spoke first.

“Oh, Horace!”

The sound of her voice restored the Squire’s fortitude.

“There you go, Margery!  D’you mean to say you believe what this fellow says?  He ought to be horsewhipped.  He knows my opinion of him.

“It’s a piece of his confounded impudence!  He nearly ran over me, and now——­”

Mrs. Pendyce broke in: 

“But, Horace, I’m afraid it’s true!  Ellen Maiden——­”

“Ellen Maiden?” said Mr. Pendyce.  “What business has she——­” He was silent, staring gloomily at the plan of Worsted Skeynes, still unrolled, like an emblem of all there was at stake.  “If George has really,” he burst out, “he’s a greater fool than I took him for!  A fool?  He’s a knave!”

Again he was silent.

Mrs. Pendyce flushed at that word, and bit her lips.

“George could never be a knave!” she said.

Mr. Pendyce answered heavily: 

“Disgracing his name!”

Mrs. Pendyce bit deeper into her lips.

“Whatever he has done,” she said, “George is sure to have behaved like a gentleman!”

An angry smile twisted the Squire’s mouth.

“Just like a woman!” he said.

But the smile died away, and on both their faces came a helpless look.  Like people who have lived together without real sympathy—­though, indeed, they had long ceased to be conscious of that—­now that something had occurred in which their interests were actually at one, they were filled with a sort of surprise.  It was no good to differ.  Differing, even silent differing, would not help their son.

“I shall write to George,” said Mr. Pendyce at last.  “I shall believe nothing till I’ve heard from him.  He’ll tell us the truth, I suppose.”

There was a quaver in his voice.

Mrs. Pendyce answered quickly: 

“Oh, Horace, be careful what you say!  I’m sure he is suffering!”

Her gentle soul, disposed to pleasure, was suffering, too, and the tears stole up in her eyes.  Mr. Pendyce’s sight was too long to see them.  The infirmity had been growing on him ever since his marriage.

“I shall say what I think right,” he said.  “I shall take time to consider what I shall say; I won’t be hurried by this ruffian.”

Mrs. Pendyce wiped her lips with her lace-edged handkerchief.

“I hope you will show me the letter,” she said.

The Squire looked at her, and he realised that she was trembling and very white, and, though this irritated him, he answered almost kindly: 

“It’s not a matter for you, my dear.”

Mrs. Pendyce took a step towards him; her gentle face expressed a strange determination.

“He is my son, Horace, as well as yours.”

Mr. Pendyce turned round uneasily.

“It’s no use your getting nervous, Margery.  I shall do what’s best.  You women lose your heads.  That d——­d fellow’s lying!  If he isn’t——­”