Mr. Pendyce pursued his thoughts.

“We’ve gone on,” he said, “father and son for hundreds of years.  It’s a blow to me, Barter.”

Again the Rector emitted that low sound.

“What will the village think?” said Mr. Pendyce; “and the farmers—­I mind that more than anything.  Most of them knew my dear old father—­not that he was popular.  It’s a bitter thing.”

The Rector said: 

“Well, well, Pendyce, perhaps it won’t come to that.”

He looked a little shamefaced, and his light eyes were full of something like contrition.

“How does Mrs. Pendyce take it?”

The Squire looked at him for the first time.

“Ah!” he said; “you never know anything about women.  I’d as soon trust a woman to be just as I’d—­I’d finish that magnum; it’d give me gout in no time.”

The Rector emptied his glass.

“I’ve sent for George and my solicitor,” pursued the Squire; “they’ll be here directly.”

Mr. Barter pushed his chair back, and raising his right ankle on to his left leg, clasped his hands round his right knee; then, leaning forward, he stared up under his jutting brows at Mr. Pendyce.  It was the attitude in which he thought best.

Mr. Pendyce ran on: 

“I’ve nursed the estate ever since it came to me; I’ve carried on the tradition as best I could; I’ve not been as good a man, perhaps, as I should have wished, but I’ve always tried to remember my old father’s words:  ‘I’m done for, Horry; the estate’s in your hands now.’” He cleared his throat.

For a full minute there was no sound save the ticking of the clock.  Then the spaniel John, coming silently from under the sideboard, fell heavily down against his master’s leg with a lengthy snore of satisfaction.  Mr. Pendyce looked down.

“This fellow of mine,” he muttered, “is getting fat.”

It was evident from the tone of his voice that he desired his emotion to be forgotten.  Something very deep in Mr. Barter respected that desire.

“It’s a first-rate magnum,” he said.

Mr. Pendyce filled his Rector’s glass.

“I forget if you knew Paramor.  He was before your time.  He was at Harrow with me.”

The Rector took a prolonged sip.

“I shall be in the way,” he said.  “I’ll take myself off’.”

The Squire put out his hand affectionately.

“No, no, Barter, don’t you go.  It’s all safe with you.  I mean to act.  I can’t stand this uncertainty.  My wife’s cousin Vigil is coming too—­he’s her guardian.  I wired for him.  You know Vigil?  He was about your time.”

The Rector turned crimson, and set his underlip.  Having scented his enemy, nothing would now persuade him to withdraw; and the conviction that he had only done his duty, a little shaken by the Squire’s confidence, returned as though by magic.

“Yes, I know him.”

“We’ll have it all out here,” muttered Mr. Pendyce, “over this port.  There’s the carriage.  Get up, John.”