But there he drew the line. For there
really was a line, though he admitted it might be difficult to see,
considering all that he was shovelling upon her. He had been very
short--perhaps she would say, very rude--with her. Well, it couldn't
be helped! When she saw what he was really prepared to face, she
would at least respect him. And if he was shut up, she could get on
with the catalogue, and keep things going.
Altogether the Squire was above himself. The tonic air and scents
of the autumn, the crisp leaves underfoot, the slight frost on the
ruts, helped his general intoxication. He, the supposed scholar and
recluse, was about to play a part--a rattling part. The eye of
England would be upon him! He already tasted the prison fare, and
found it quite tolerable.
As to Desmond--
But the thought of him no sooner crossed the Squire's mind than he
dismissed it. Or rather it survived far within, as a volcanic force,
from which the outer froth and ferment drew half its strength. He
was being forcibly dispossessed of Desmond, just as he was being
forcibly dispossessed of his farms and his park; or of his money,
swallowed up in monstrous income tax.
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