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?"
Mrs. Pendyce raised her hands and made what for her was a passionate
gesture.
"Oh, Horace!" she said, "you don't understand. He's in love with her!"
Mr. Pendyce's lower lip trembled, a sign with him of excitement or
emotion. All the conservative strength of his nature, all the immense
dumb force of belief in established things, all that stubborn hatred and
dread of change, that incalculable power of imagining nothing, which,
since the beginning of time, had made Horace Pendyce the arbiter of his
land, rose up within his sorely tried soul.
"What on earth's that to do with it?" he cried in a rage. "You women!
You've no sense of anything! Romantic, idiotic, immoral--I don't know
what you're at.
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