“Very good; then if you change your mind, I want your promise that you will immediately let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joseph, as if the promise cost him nothing, and suggested nothing to his mind, “I will.”

“There,” thought John, as he turned away, “he does not know what he is about; but if she brings the thing on again, I believe he will keep faith with me, and a clandestine marriage I am determined shall not be.”

He then went into the town and found, to his surprise, that Brandon had already seen his father, and had told him that Dorothea Graham had engaged herself to him.  John was very much pleased, but his father treated the matter with a degree of apathy which rather startled and disturbed him.

Old Augustus was in general deeply interested in a marriage; he had helped several people to marry, and whether he approved or disapproved of any one in particular, he was almost sure, when he had been lately told of it, to make some remarks on the sacredness of the institution, and on the advantages of an early marriage for young men.

He, however, said nothing, though Brandon was one of his chief favourites; but having just related the fact, took up the Times, and John opened his letters, one of them being from his son Johnny, written in a fully-formed and beautiful hand, which made its abrupt style and boyish vehemence the more observable.

“My Dearest Father,—­It’s all right.  Mr. ——­ took me to Harrow, and Dr. B. examined me, and he said—­oh, he said a good deal about my Latin verses, and the books I’m in, but I can’t tell you it, because it seems so muffish.  And, papa, I wish I might bring Crayshaw home for the Easter holidays; you very nearly promised I should; but I wanted to tell you what fun I and the other fellows had at the boat-race.  You can hardly think how jolly it was.  I suppose when I get into the great school I shall never see it.  We ran down shouting and yelling after the boats.  I thought I should never be happy again if Cambridge didn’t win.  It was such a disgustingly sleety, blowy, snowy, windy, raspy, muddy day, as you never saw.  And such crowds of fellows cheering and screeching out to the crews.  Such a rout!

     “’The Lord Mayor lent the City P’lice,
     The cads ran down by scores and scores
     With shouting roughs, and scented muffs,
     While blue were flounces, frills, and gores. 
       On swampy meads, in sleeted hush,
       The swarms of London made a rush,
       And all the world was in the slush.’

“Etcetera.  That’s part of Crayshaw’s last; it’s a parody of one of those American fogies.  Dear father, you will let me come home, won’t you; because I do assure you I shall get in with the greatest ease, even if I’m not coached for a day more.  A great many fellows here haven’t a tutor at all.—­I remain, your affectionate son,

“A.J.  Mortimer.