“I’m afraid of disturbing father by our talk,” said the considerate daughter.  “You might tell him we’ve gone for a little stroll when he wakes,” she added, turning to Blundell.

Mr. Blundell, who had risen with the idea of acting the humble but, in his opinion, highly necessary part of chaperon, sat down again and watched blankly from the window until they were out of sight.  He was half inclined to think that the exigencies of the case warranted him in arousing the farmer at once.

It was an hour later when the farmer awoke, to find himself alone with Mr. Blundell, a state of affairs for which he strove with some pertinacity to make that aggrieved gentleman responsible.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” he demanded.  “Because I wasn’t asked,” replied the other.

Mr. Turnbull sat up in his chair and eyed him disdainfully.  “For a great, big chap like you are, John Blundell,” he exclaimed, “it’s surprising what a little pluck you’ve got.”

“I don’t want to go where I’m not wanted,” retorted Mr. Blundell.

“That’s where you make a mistake,” said the other, regarding him severely; “girls like a masterful man, and, instead of getting your own way, you sit down quietly and do as you’re told, like a tame—­tame—­”

“Tame what?” inquired Mr. Blundell, resentfully.

“I don’t know,” said the other, frankly; “the tamest thing you can think of.  There’s Daly laughing in his sleeve at you, and talking to Venia about Waterloo and the Crimea as though he’d been there.  I thought it was pretty near settled between you.”

“So did I,” said Mr. Blundell.

“You’re a big man, John,” said the other, “but you’re slow.  You’re all muscle and no head.”

“I think of things afterward,” said Blundell, humbly; “generally after I get to bed.”

Mr. Turnbull sniffed, and took a turn up and down the room; then he closed the door and came toward his friend again.

“I dare say you’re surprised at me being so anxious to get rid of Venia,” he said, slowly, “but the fact is I’m thinking of marrying again myself.”

“You!” said the startled Mr. Blundell.

“Yes, me,” said the other, somewhat sharply.  “But she won’t marry so long as Venia is at home.  It’s a secret, because if Venia got to hear of it she’d keep single to prevent it.  She’s just that sort of girl.”

Mr. Blundell coughed, but did not deny it.  “Who is it?” he inquired.

“Miss Sippet,” was the reply.  “She couldn’t hold her own for half an hour against Venia.”

Mr. Blundell, a great stickler for accuracy, reduced the time to five minutes.

“And now,” said the aggrieved Mr. Turnbull, “now, so far as I can see, she’s struck with Daly.  If she has him it’ll be years and years before they can marry.  She seems crazy about heroes.  She was talking to me the other night about them.  Not to put too fine a point on it, she was talking about you.”