"And do you think you'll find what you want in him!--in that inexperienced schoolboy?" burst forth Mr. Chattaway. "I do," replied Mrs. Ryle, her tone so significantly decided, as to be almost offensive. "He takes his standing from this day as master of Trevlyn Farm; subject only to me." "I wish you joy of him!" angrily returned Chattaway. "But you must understand, Mrs. Ryle, that your having a boy at the head of affairs will oblige me to look more keenly after my interests." "My arrangements with you are settled," she said. "So long as I fulfil my part, that is all that concerns you, James Chattaway." "You'll not fulfil it, if you put him at the head of things." "When I fail you can come here and tell me of it. Until then, I prefer that you should not intrude on Trevlyn Farm." She rang the bell sharply as she spoke, and Molly, who was passing along the passage, immediately appeared. Mrs. Ryle extended her hand imperiously, the forefinger pointed. "The door for Mr. Chattaway." CHAPTER X MADAM'S ROOM Leading out of Mrs. Chattaway's dressing-room was a comfortable apartment, fitted up as a sitting-room, with chintz hangings and maple-wood furniture. It was called in the household "Madam's Room," and here Mrs. Chattaway frequently sat. Yes; the house and the neighbourhood accorded her readily the title which usage had long given to the mistress of Trevlyn Hold: but they would not give that of "Squire" to her husband. I wish particularly to repeat this. Strive for it as he would, force his personal servants to observe the title as he did, he could not get it recognised or adopted. When a written invitation came to the Hold--a rare event, for the old-fashioned custom of inviting verbally was chiefly followed there--it would be worded, "Mr. and Madam Chattaway," and Chattaway's face would turn green as he read it. No, never! He enjoyed the substantial good of being proprietor of Trevlyn Hold, he received its revenues, he held sway as its lord and master; but its honours were not given to him. It was so much gall and wormwood to Chattaway. Mrs. Chattaway stood at this window on that dull morning in November mentioned in the last chapter, her eyes strained on the distance. What was she gazing at? Those lodge chimneys?--The dark, almost bare trees that waved to and fro in the wintry wind?--The extensive landscape stretching out in the distance, not fine to-day, but dull and cheerless?--Or on the shifting clouds in the grey skies? Not on any of these; her eyes, though apparently bent on all, in reality saw nothing. They were fixed on vacancy; buried, like her thoughts.