On Tuesday, the day that Mrs. Pendyce had left, the Squire had come in later than usual, for he felt that after their difference of the night before, a little coolness would do her no harm.  The first hour of discovery had been as one confused and angry minute, ending in a burst of nerves and the telegram to General Pendyce.  He took the telegram himself, returning from the village with his head down, a sudden prey to a feeling of shame—­an odd and terrible feeling that he never remembered to have felt before, a sort of fear of his fellow-creatures.  He would have chosen a secret way, but there was none, only the highroad, or the path across the village green, and through the churchyard to his paddocks.  An old cottager was standing at the turnstile, and the Squire made for him with his head down, as a bull makes for a fence.  He had meant to pass in silence, but between him and this old broken husbandman there was a bond forged by the ages.  Had it meant death, Mr. Pendyce could not have passed one whose fathers had toiled for his fathers, eaten his fathers’ bread, died with his fathers, without a word and a movement of his hand.

“Evenin’, Squire; nice evenin’.  Faine weather fur th’ hay!”

The voice was warped and wavery.

‘This is my Squire,’ it seemed to say, ‘whatever ther’ be agin him!’

Mr. Pendyce’s hand went up to his hat.

“Evenin’, Hermon.  Aye, fine weather for the hay!  Mrs. Pendyce has gone up to London.  We young bachelors, ha!”

He passed on.

Not until he had gone some way did he perceive why he had made that announcement.  It was simply because he must tell everyone, everyone; then no one could be astonished.

He hurried on to the house to dress in time for dinner, and show all that nothing was amiss.  Seven courses would have been served him had the sky fallen; but he ate little, and drank more claret than was his wont.  After dinner he sat in his study with the windows open, and in the mingled day and lamp light read his wife’s letter over again.  As it was with the spaniel John, so with his master—­a new idea penetrated but slowly into his long and narrow head.

She was cracked about George; she did not know what she was doing; would soon come to her senses.  It was not for him to take any steps.  What steps, indeed, could he take without confessing that Horace Pendyce had gone too far, that Horace Pendyce was in the wrong?  That had never been his habit, and he could not alter now.  If she and George chose to be stubborn, they must take the consequences, and fend for themselves.