Then, of course, they must not visit at houses to whose sons the squire could not or would not return a like hospitality.  On all these points Mrs. Hamley had used her utmost influence without avail; his prejudices were immovable.  As regarded his position as head of the oldest family in three counties, his pride was invincible; as regarded himself personally—­ill at ease in the society of his equals, deficient in manners, and in education—­his morbid sensitiveness was too sore and too self-conscious to be called humility.

Take one instance from among many similar scenes of the state of feeling between the squire and his eldest son, which, if it could not be called active discord, showed at least passive estrangement.

It took place on an evening in the March succeeding Mrs. Hamley’s death.  Roger was at Cambridge.  Osborne had also been from home, and he had not volunteered any information as to his absence.  The squire believed that Osborne had been either in Cambridge with his brother, or in London; he would have liked to hear where his son had been, what he had been doing, and whom he had seen, purely as pieces of news, and as some diversion from the domestic worries and cares which were pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions, and Osborne had not given him any details of his journey.  This silence had aggravated the squire’s internal dissatisfaction, and he came home to dinner weary and sore-hearted a day or two after Osborne’s return.  It was just six o’clock, and he went hastily into his own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after washing his hands, came into the drawing-room feeling as if he were very late, but the room was empty.  He glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece, as he tried to warm his hands at the fire.  The fire had been neglected, and had gone out during the day; it was now piled with half-dried wood, which sputtered and smoked instead of doing its duty in blazing and warming the room, through which the keen wind was cutting its way in all directions.  The clock had stopped, no one had remembered to wind it up, but by the squire’s watch it was already past dinner-time.  The old butler put his head into the room, but, seeing the squire alone, he was about to draw it back, and wait for Mr. Osborne, before announcing dinner.  He had hoped to do this unperceived, but the squire caught him in the act.

‘Why isn’t dinner ready?’ he called out sharply.  ’It’s ten minutes past six.  And, pray, why are you using this wood?  It’s impossible to get oneself warm by such a fire as this.’

‘I believe, sir, that Thomas—­’

‘Don’t talk to me of Thomas.  Send dinner in directly.’