But even such reductions as these, trifling though they were, could not be made secretly—could not be made, in fact, without becoming the talk of the whole neighbourhood; and if there was one thing the Squire detested more than another, it was having his private affairs challenged and discussed by other people. And what, after all, would the saving amount to? How many years of such petty economy would be needed to scrape together even as much as one-fourth of the sum he had lost by his mad speculations? It was all a muddle, as he said to himself; and his brain seemed getting hopelessly muddled, too, with asking the same questions over and over again, and still finding himself as far from a satisfactory answer as ever. There was one thing that he could do, and one only, that had about it any real basis of satisfaction. He could sell that piece of ground which has already been spoken of as not forming part of the entailed estate—the piece of ground on which his new mansion was to have been built. Land, just now, was fetching good prices. Yes, he would certainly sell Knockley Holt, and fund in Jenny’s name whatever money it might fetch—not that it would command a very high price, being a poor piece of land, as everybody knew. Still it would be a nest egg, though only a little one, for a rainy day. CHAPTER IV. KNOCKLEY HOLT. About this time Tom Bristow found himself very often at Pincote. The Squire would have him there. It seemed as if he could not do without Tom’s society. Since the loss of his money he had been getting more and more disinclined either for going out himself or having company at home. Still he could not altogether do without somebody to talk to now and then; and Tom being either a good listener or a lively talker, as occasion might require, and having already rendered the Squire an important service, it seemed somehow to fall into the natural order of things that he should be invited three or four times a week to dine at Pincote. Nor after Mrs. McDermott’s arrival was he there less frequently. Not that the Squire did not find his sister very lively company. In fact, he often found her too lively. She had too much to say: her tongue was never quiet. In season and out of season, she overwhelmed her brother with an unending flow of small-talk and petty gossip about things that had little or no interest for him; but about which he was obliged to feign an interest, unless, as he himself expressed it, “he wanted to know the length of his sister’s tongue.”