The Squire felt himself generally cornered. No doubt she was now
telling her story to the Penningtons, who, of course, would
disapprove the gates affair, in any case. The long hours before
dinner passed away. The Squire thought them interminable. Dinner was
a gloomy and embarrassed function. His daughters were afraid of
rousing a fresh whirlwind of temper, if the gates were mentioned;
and nothing else was interesting. The meal was short and spare, and
the Squire noticed for the first time that while meat was offered to
him, the others fed on fish and vegetables. All to put him in the
wrong, of course!
After dinner he went back to the library. Work was impossible. He
hung over the fire smoking, or turning over the pages of a fresh
section of the catalogue which Elizabeth had placed--complete--on
his desk that morning.
It seemed to him that all the powers of mischief had risen against
him. The recent investigation of his affairs made by Elizabeth at
his express wish, slight and preliminary though it was, had shown
him what he had long and obstinately refused to see--that the estate
had seriously gone down in value during the preceding five years;
that he had a dozen scraps and disputes on his hands, more than
enough to rasp the nerves of any ordinary man--and as far as nerves
were concerned, he knew very well that he was not an ordinary man;
that, in short, he was impoverished and embarrassed; his agent was a
scandal and must be dismissed, and his new lawyers, a grasping,
incompetent crew.
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