“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. Mr. Pendyce's sight was too long to see them. The infirmity had been growing on him ever since his marriage. “I shall say what I think right,” he said. “I shall take time to consider what I shall say; I won't be hurried by this ruffian.” Mrs. Pendyce wiped her lips with her lace-edged handkerchief. “I hope you will show me the letter,” she said. The Squire looked at her, and he realised that she was trembling and very white, and, though this irritated him, he answered almost kindly: “It's not a matter for you, my dear.” Mrs. Pendyce took a step towards him; her gentle face expressed a strange determination. “He is my son, Horace, as well as yours.” Mr. Pendyce turned round uneasily. “It's no use your getting nervous, Margery. I shall do what's best. You women lose your heads. That d----d fellow's lying! If he isn't----” At these words the spaniel John rose from his corner and advanced to the middle of the floor. He stood there curved in a half-circle, and looked darkly at his master. “Confound it!” said Mr. Pendyce. “It's--it's damnable!” And as if answering for all that depended on Worsted Skeynes, the spaniel John deeply wagged that which had been left him of his tail. Mrs. Pendyce came nearer still. “If George refuses to give you that promise, what will you do, Horace?” Mr. Pendyce stared. “Promise? What promise?” Mrs. Pendyce thrust forward the note. “This promise not to see her again.” Mr. Pendyce motioned it aside. “I'll not be dictated to by that fellow Bellew,” he said. Then, by an afterthought: “It won't do to give him a chance. George must promise me that in any case.” Mrs. Pendyce pressed her lips together. “But do you think he will?” “Think--think who will? Think he will what? Why can't you express yourself, Margery? If George has really got us into this mess he must get us out again.” Mrs. Pendyce flushed. “He would never leave her in the lurch!” The Squire said angrily: “Lurch! Who said anything about lurch? He owes it to her. Not that she deserves any consideration, if she's been---- You don't mean to say you think he'll refuse? He'd never be such a donkey?”