“Yes; I do know it,” said he, walking on with her.  “I do know that nothing ever turns you away from the good work.”

There was something in the tone of his voice which Fanny did not like.  He had never complimented her before.  They had been very intimate, and had often scolded each other.  Fanny would accuse him of exacting too much from the people, and he would retort upon her that she coddled them.  Fanny would often decline to obey him, and he would make angry hints as to his clerical authority.  In this way they had worked together pleasantly, without any of the awkwardness which on other terms would have arisen between a young man and a young woman.  But now that he began to praise her with some peculiar intention of meaning in his tone, she was confounded.  She had made no immediate answer to him, but walked on rapidly through the mud and slush.

“You are very constant,” said he; “I have not been two years at Clavering without finding that out.”  It was becoming worse and worse.  It was not so much his words which provoked her as the tone in which they were uttered.  And yet she had not the slightest idea of what was coming.  If, thoroughly admiring her devotion and mistaken as to her character, he were to ask her to become a Protestant nun, or suggest to her that she should leave her home and go as nurse into a hospital, then there would have occurred the sort of folly of which she believed him to be capable.  Of the folly which he now committed, she had not believed him to be capable.

It had come on to rain hard, and she held her umbrella low over her head.  He also was walking with an open umbrella in his hand, so that they were not very close to each other.  Fanny, as she stepped on impetuously, put her foot into the depth of a pool, and splashed herself thoroughly.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” said she; “this is very disagreeable.”

“Miss Clavering,” said he, “I have been looking for an opportunity to speak to you, and I do not know when I may find another so suitable as this.”  She still believed that some proposition was to be made to her which would be disagreeable, and perhaps impertinent; but it never occurred to her that Mr. Saul was in want of a wife.

“Doesn’t it rain too hard for talking?” she said.

“As I have begun, I must go on with it now,” he replied, raising his voice a little, as though it were necessary that he should do so to make her hear him through the rain and darkness.  She moved a little further away from him with unthinking irritation; but still he went on with his purpose.  “Miss Clavering, I know that I am ill-suited to play the part of a lover; very ill-suited.”  Then she gave a start and again splashed herself sadly.  “I have never read how it is done in books, and have not allowed my imagination to dwell much on such things.”

“Mr. Saul, don’t go on; pray don’t.”  Now she did understand what was coming.