husband's character, turning
and turning and trying to understand, that she might know the best way
of approaching him. And she could not feel sure, for behind all the
little outside points of his nature, that she thought so "funny," yet
could comprehend, there was something which seemed to her as unknown,
as impenetrable as the dark, a sort of thickness of soul, a sort
of hardness, a sort of barbaric-what? And as when in working at her
embroidery the point of her needle would often come to a stop against
stiff buckram, so now was the point of her soul brought to a stop
against the soul of her husband. 'Perhaps,' she thought, 'Horace feels
like that with me.' She need not so have thought, for the Squire never
worked embroideries, nor did the needle of his soul make voyages of
discovery.

By lunch-time the next day she had not dared to say a word. 'If I say
nothing,' she thought, 'he may write it of his own accord.'

Without attracting his attention, therefore, she watched every movement
of his morning. She saw him sitting at his bureau with a creased and
crumpled letter, and knew it was Bellew's; and she hovered about, coming
softly in and out, doing little things here and there and in the hall,
outside. But the Squire gave no sign, motionless as the spaniel John
couched along the ground with his nose between his paws.

After lunch she could bear it no longer.

"What do you think ought to be done now, Horace?"

The Squire looked at her fixedly.

"If you imagine," he said at last, "that I'll have anything to do with
that fellow Bellew, you're very much mistaken."

Mrs. Pendyce was arranging a vase of flowers, and her hand shook so
that some of the water was spilled over the cloth. She took out her
handkerchief and dabbed it up.

"You never answered his letter, dear," she said.

The Squire put his back against the sideboard; his stiff figure, with
lean neck and angry eyes, whose pupils were mere pin-points, had a
certain dignity.

"Nothing shall induce me!" he said, and his voice was harsh and strong,
as though he spoke for something bigger than himself. "I've thought it
over all the morning, and I'm d---d if I do! The man is a ruffian. I
won't knuckle under to him!"

Mrs. Pendyce clasped her hands.

"Oh, Horace," she said; "but for the sake of us all! Only just give him
that assurance."

"And let him crow over me!" cried the Squire. "By Jove, no!"

"But, Horace, I thought that was what you wanted Georg