“’Tis an awkward piece of business,” he said, “and I had much rather it had not fallen so; but I suppose it must be done.”

Still Manners vouchsafed no reply, and his silence added to the baron’s discomfiture.

For a long time neither of them spoke.  The baron wiped the perspiration from his brow and tried to frame together the words which proved so troublesome to utter, while Manners sat, ill at ease, waiting to hear the worst.

“Most young men fall in love,” exclaimed the knight at length.  He jerked the words out rather than spoke them, but they were at least uttered, and feeling that he had broken the ice he heaved a sigh of relief.

“I did so myself,” he innocently rambled on, “more than once.”  He had almost said “and once too many,” but he paused with the words upon his lips, and the recollection that Lady Maude might not be far away decided him to leave the remark unexpressed.

“I have done so, too, once and for ever,” exclaimed Manners, mustering up courage enough to break into the subject at a stroke.  He felt that it must all come out now, and the sooner it was over the better pleased would he be; therefore he plunged headlong into it, hoping, perchance, to fire the baron with a little of the same enthusiasm with which he was himself possessed.

“It has been my good fortune,” he continued boldly, “to fall deeply in love with your daughter, your Dorothy—­and she has not spurned me.”

“No, Doll is a rare girl, a bonnie girl, and a good one, too.  I love her better than I love myself, and forsooth, young man, we value ourselves at no sorry figure neither.”

“I wonder whoever saw her that did not love her,” said the deeply-smitten swain sententiously.

They were both engaged in conversation now in common sympathy, and the eyes of the old knight sparkled with joy as he thought of his darling and her many charms.

“She is the light of my life,” he replied.  “See, there she goes, with her bewitching grace,” and he caught hold of Manners and drew him into the recess of the oriel window and pointed out where Dorothy and her sister were talking together on the green.

“Margaret is to wed Sir Thomas Stanley this autumn, I hear,” ventured the esquire.

“Yes—­and Dorothy is to be wedded this winter also,” replied the baron as he heard the partner of his joys pass again outside the door.

“This winter!” echoed Manners in blank dismay.  “Dorothy to be wedded this winter!  To whom, I pray?”

“To Sir Edward Stanley.”

Manners staggered back against the wall as though he had been smitten by some invisible hand.  His face blanched, his lips quivered, and he gasped for very breath.  This was news indeed, far beyond his worst anticipations, and he was almost crushed by the blow.

The baron watched him with a feeling akin to dismay.  He hated his unpleasant task, and half regretted the promise he had made Sir Thomas Stanley.  He pitied the unfortunate esquire who stood before him, and sincerely blamed himself for accepting the business, and the dame for thrusting it upon him.