But on this Wednesday the flavour of the dish was gone.  To be alone amongst his acres, quite alone—­to have no one to care whether he did anything at all, no one to whom he might confide that Beldame’s hock was to be fired, that Peacock was asking for more gates, was almost more than he could bear.  He would have wired to the girls to come home, but he could not bring him self to face their questions.  Gerald was at Gib!  George—­George was no son of his!—­and his pride forbade him to write to her who had left him thus to solitude and shame.  For deep down below his stubborn anger it was shame that the Squire felt—­shame that he should have to shun his neighbours, lest they should ask him questions which, for his own good name and his own pride, he must answer with a lie; shame that he should not be master in his own house—­still more, shame that anyone should see that he was not.  To be sure, he did not know that he felt shame, being unused to introspection, having always kept it at arm’s length.  For he always meditated concretely, as, for instance, when he looked up and did not see his wife at breakfast, but saw Bester making coffee, he thought, ‘That fellow knows all about it, I shouldn’t wonder!’ and he felt angry for thinking that.  When he saw Mr. Barter coming down the drive he thought, ‘Confound it!  I can’t meet him,’ and slipped out, and felt angry that he had thus avoided him.  When in the Scotch garden he came on Jackman syringing the rose-trees, he said to him, “Your mistress has gone to London,” and abruptly turned away, angry that he had been obliged by a mysterious impulse to tell him that: 

So it was, all through that long, sad day, and the only thing that gave him comfort was to score through, in the draft of his will, bequests to his eldest son, and busy himself over drafting a clause to take their place: 

“Forasmuch as my eldest son, George Hubert, has by conduct unbecoming to a gentleman and a Pendyce, proved himself unworthy of my confidence, and forasmuch as to my regret I am unable to cut the entail of my estate, I hereby declare that he shall in no way participate in any division of my other property or of my personal effects, conscientiously believing that it is my duty so to do in the interests of my family and of the country, and I make this declaration without anger.”

For, all the anger that he was balked of feeling against his wife, because he missed her so, was added to that already felt against his son.

By the last post came a letter from General Pendyce.  He opened it with fingers as shaky as his brother’s writing.

“Armyand navy club. 
“Dear Horace,

“What the deuce and all made you send that telegram?  It spoiled my breakfast, and sent me off in a tearing hurry, to find Margery perfectly well.  If she’d been seedy or anything I should have been delighted, but there she was, busy about her dresses and what not, and I dare say she thought me a lunatic for coming at that time in the morning.  You shouldn’t get into the habit of sending telegrams.  A telegram is a thing that means something—­at least, I’ve always thought so.  I met George coming away from her in a deuce of a hurry.  I can’t write any more now.  I’m just going to have my lunch.