He took up his hat and stick.
'I'm sorry, Mannering, that I have not been able to convince you.
I'm sorry for your point of view--and I'm sorry for your sons.' The words slipped out of his mouth before he knew.
The Squire bounded.
'My sons! The one's a fire-eater, with whom you can't argue.

The other's a child--a babe--whom the Government proposes to murder before he has begun to live.' Sir Henry looked at the speaker, who had been violently flushed a minute earlier, and was now as pale as himself, and then at the sketch of Desmond, just behind the Squire.

His eyes dropped; the hurry in his blood subsided.
'Well, good-bye, Mannering.

I'll--I'll do what I can to make things easy for you.' The Squire laughed angrily.
'You'll put on the screws politely?
Thank you?
But still it will be _you_ who'll be putting the screw on, who'll be turning out my farmers, and ploughing up my land, and cutting down my trees.
Doesn't it strike you that--well, that--under the circumstances--it will be rather difficult for Aubrey and Beryl to keep up their engagement ?' The Squire was sitting on the edge of the table, his thin legs crossed, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.

Sir Henry coloured hotly.
'You gave your consent to their engagement, Mannering.' 'Yes, but I propose to withdraw it,' said the Squire coolly.
Sir Henry's indignation kept him cool also.
'You can't play ducks and drakes with young people's lives like that.