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The fact is, of course, that he's been here for
twenty years, and the Squire couldn't get on for a day without
him, or thinks he couldn't. So that his position is, as you may
say, strongly entrenched, and counter-attacks are useless.
'The married daughters--Mrs. Gaddesden, who, I think, is an
Honourable, and Mrs. Strang--are coming to-morrow to see their
brother before he goes into camp. The Squire doesn't want them
at all. Ah, there he comes! I'll finish later...'
* * * * *
The Squire came in--to use one of the Homeric similes of which he
was so fond--'like a lion fresh from a slain bull, bespattered with
blood and mire.' He had gone out pale, he returned crimson, rubbing
his hands and in great excitement. And it was evident that he had by
now formed the habit of talking freely to his secretary. For he went
up to her at once.
'Well, now they know what to expect!' he said, his eyes glittering,
and all his thick hair on his small peaked head standing up in a
high ridge, like the crest of a battle-helmet.


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