Mrs. Hamley did not come down to breakfast; and Molly found out, with a
little dismay, that the squire and she were to have it by themselves.
On this first morning he put aside his newspapers--one an old
established Tory journal, with all the local and county news, which was
the most interesting to him; the other the _Morning Chronicle_, which
he called his dose of bitters, and which called out many a strong
expression and tolerably pungent oath. To-day, however, he was 'on his
manners,' as he afterwards explained to Molly; and he plunged about,
trying to find ground for a conversation. He could talk of his wife and
his sons, his estate, and his mode of farming; his tenants, and the
mismanagement of the last county election. Molly's interests were her
father, Miss Eyre, her garden and pony; in a fainter degree the Miss
Brownings, the Cumnor Charity School, and the new gown that was to come
from Miss Rose's; into the midst of which the one great question, 'Who
was it that people thought it was possible papa might marry?' kept
popping up into her mouth, like a troublesome Jack-in-the-box. For the
present, however, the lid was snapped down upon the intruder as often
as he showed his head between her teeth. They were very polite to each
other during the meal; and it was not a little tiresome to both. When
it was ended the squire withdrew into his study to read the untasted
newspapers. It was the custom to call the room in which Squire Hamley
kept his coats, boots, and gaiters, his different sticks and favourite
spud, his gun and fishing-rods, the study. There was a bureau in it,
and a three-cornered arm-chair, but no books were visible. The greater
part of them were kept in a large, musty-smelling room, in an
unfrequented part of the house; so unfrequented that the housemaid
often neglected to open the window-shutters, which looked into a part
of the grounds over-grown with the luxuriant growth of shrubs. Indeed,
it was a tradition in the servants' hall that, in the late squire's