children.

Now, the squire was, of course, very well aware of the troubles of
agriculture, the wetness of the seasons--which played havoc with the
game--the low prices, and the loud talk that was going on around him. But
he made no sign. He might have been deaf, dumb, and blind. He walked by
the wheat, but did not see the deficiency of the crop, nor the
extraordinary growth of weeds. There were voices in the air like the
mutterings of a coming storm, but he did not hear them. There were
paragraphs in the papers--how So-and-So had liberally reduced the rents or
returned a percentage; but he did not read them, or did not understand.
Rent days came and went, and no sign was made. His solicitor received the
rents, but nothing could be got out of him by the farmers. The little
farmers hardly liked to take the lead: some of them did not dare. The
three largest farmers looked at each other and wondered which would speak
first. They were awkwardly situated. The squire's wife acknowledged their
wives and daughters, and once now and then deigned to invite them to the
mansion. The squire himself presented them with specimens of a valuable
breed of poultry he was bringing up at the Home Farm. It was difficult to
begin unpleasant business.

Meantime the solicitor gathered up the cheques, wished them good afternoon
and departed. Another rent day came round, and still no sign. The squire's
policy was, in fact, to ignore. He ignored the depression altogether--could
not see that it existed in that county at all. Recollect, it was the only
policy open to him. Whether the rents paid to him were large or small, his
expenses would be the same. There were the members of the other branch of
the family to be paid in full. There were the carriages, the servants, the
gamekeepers, and so on. He could reduce nothing; no wonder that he was
slow to acknowledge that he must be himself reduced. The fatal day--so