The young man was a favourite with all the people about the place, and many were the hopes expressed that the squire wouldn’t be too hard on Master George, as was a bit wild, perhaps, as was but natural, but he’d settle down when he’d sown his wild oats, bless him, and be a squire as ‘ud do the old hall some credit yet. The good souls who spoke up for the young scapegrace didn’t know what a plentiful crop of oats Master George had sown, neither had they had to draw the cheques to pay for this rather unprofitable agricultural produce. George and his father quarrelled fiercely this time. The squire swore that not one penny more should George have. He was a reprobate and a vagabond. He was wasting his substance in riotous living and bringing discredit on an honoured name. The young man in turn reproached his father. He had made the home dull and repellent. It was like a monastery more than a gentleman’s house. Because he was no longer young himself and had had his pleasure and seen life, he had no sympathy with young men. George wasn’t going to turn goody-goody and take to psalm-singing and dryasdust books for anybody. If his father wouldn’t give him any more money, he’d do without it. He didn’t want money that was grudged him. Let the squire keep his money, if he was so fond of it. Taunt succeeded taunt, reproach reproach, and so the wordy warfare was worked up to its climax. It ended by the squire denouncing his son as an unprincipled rascal, and swearing that he would disinherit him. Then George spoke some bitter words and marched out of his father’s presence, vowing that he should see his face no more. ‘I’m young and strong, and I’ll be independent of you,’ he said. ‘You say I’m no son of yours—so be it. From this moment I renounce my name. I have no father—you have no son. Leave your money to the missionaries, or do what the deuce you like with it. You can’t take it to heaven with you when you die.’ With these words the young man strode out of his father’s presence, bade the servants in a loud voice pack up his things and send them up to Waterloo Station the next day, as he was going on a journey; and then he walked hastily down the Avenue, his small travelling-bag in his hand, and went to the spot where Bess was anxiously awaiting the result of the interview. ‘Oh, George, what will you do?’ moaned the girl. ‘Do, my darling?’ answered the young man, looking at her lovingly, and then stooping down and kissing her. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll marry you, and we’ll settle down into a hardworking young couple, and perhaps, some day, if we’re good, we shall have a public-house.’ Bess was hot and cold, and the rich blood faded from her olive cheeks only to rush back again and suffuse them with a burning crimson, for George’s sudden proposition had turned her first giddy and then faint; but, confused and troubled as she was, she could not help laughing at the idea of George keeping a public-house.