“Why can’t I understand?” I asked indignantly.  “The thing you have seen and felt has been in this world long enough for every man to understand.  Eve used it upon Adam.  I can’t understand?  Damme, sir, do you think I am a clod?  I have felt it fifty times.”

“Not—­” began Sir John, hesitatingly.

“Nonsense!” I replied.  “You, too, will have the same experience fifty times again before you are my age.”

“But the lady,” said Sir John, “tell me of her.  Will you—­can you present me to her?  If not, will you tell me who she is?”

I remained for a moment in thought, wondering if it were right for me to tell him that the girl whom he so much admired was the daughter of his father’s enemy.  I could see no way of keeping Dorothy’s name from him, so I determined to tell him.

“She is my cousin, Mistress Dorothy Vernon,” I said.  “The eldest is Lady Dorothy Crawford.  The beautiful, pale girl I do not know.”

“I am sorry,” returned Sir John; “she is the lady whom you have come to marry, is she not?”

“Y-e-s,” said I, hesitatingly.

“You certainly are to be congratulated,” returned Manners.

“I doubt if I shall marry her,” I replied.

“Why?” asked Manners.

“For many reasons, chief among which is her beauty.”

“That is an unusual reason for declining a woman,” responded Sir John, with a low laugh.

“I think it is quite usual,” I replied, having in mind the difficulty with which great beauties are won.  But I continued, “A woman of moderate beauty makes a safer wife, and in the long run is more comforting than one who is too attractive.”

“You are a philosopher, Sir Malcolm,” said Manners, laughingly.

“And a liar,” I muttered to myself.  I felt sure, however, that I should never marry Dorothy Vernon, and I do not mind telling you, even at this early stage in my history, that I was right in my premonition.  I did not marry her.

“I suppose I shall now be compelled to give you up to your relatives,” said Manners.

“Yes,” I returned, “we must say good-by for the present; but if we do not meet again, it shall not be for the lack of my wishing.  Your father and Sir George would feel deeply injured, should they learn of our friendship, therefore—­”

“You are quite right,” he interrupted.  “It is better that no one should know of it.  Nevertheless, between you and me let there be no feud.”

“The secrecy of our friendship will give it zest,” said I.  “That is true, but ‘good wine needs no bush.’  You will not mention my name to the ladies?”

“No, if you wish that I shall not.”

“I do so wish.”

When the stable boys had taken our horses, I gave my hand to Sir John, after which we entered the inn and treated each other as strangers.

Soon after I had washed the stains of travel from my hands and face, I sent the maid to my cousins, asking that I might be permitted to pay my devotions, and Dorothy came to the tap-room in response to my message.