think what they like, talk as they like." At
Worsted Skeynes (and Worsted Skeynes was every country house) there was
but one set of people, one church, one pack of hounds, one everything.
The importance of a clear escutcheon was too great. And they who had
lived together for thirty-four years looked at each other with a new
expression in their eyes; their feelings were for once the same. But
since it is always the man who has the nicer sense of honour, their
thoughts were not the same, for Mr. Pendyce was thinking: 'I won't
believe it--disgracing us all!' and Mrs. Pendyce was thinking: 'My boy!'

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.