“Oh yes!—­that is, no—­I do not know—­but I believe he has read a good deal—­but not what you would think any thing of.  He reads the Agricultural Reports, and some other books that lay in one of the window seats—­but he reads all them to himself.  But sometimes of an evening, before we went to cards, he would read something aloud out of the Elegant Extracts, very entertaining.  And I know he has read the Vicar of Wakefield.  He never read the Romance of the Forest, nor The Children of the Abbey.  He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them now as soon as ever he can.”

The next question was—­

“What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”

“Oh! not handsome—­not at all handsome.  I thought him very plain at first, but I do not think him so plain now.  One does not, you know, after a time.  But did you never see him?  He is in Highbury every now and then, and he is sure to ride through every week in his way to Kingston.  He has passed you very often.”

“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, but without having any idea of his name.  A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity.  The yeomanry are precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.  A degree or two lower, and a creditable appearance might interest me; I might hope to be useful to their families in some way or other.  But a farmer can need none of my help, and is, therefore, in one sense, as much above my notice as in every other he is below it.”

“To be sure.  Oh yes!  It is not likely you should ever have observed him; but he knows you very well indeed—­I mean by sight.”

“I have no doubt of his being a very respectable young man.  I know, indeed, that he is so, and, as such, wish him well.  What do you imagine his age to be?”

“He was four-and-twenty the 8th of last June, and my birthday is the 23rd just a fortnight and a day’s difference—­which is very odd.”

“Only four-and-twenty.  That is too young to settle.  His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry.  They seem very comfortable as they are, and if she were to take any pains to marry him, she would probably repent it.  Six years hence, if he could meet with a good sort of young woman in the same rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”

“Six years hence!  Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty years old!”

“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born to an independence.  Mr. Martin, I imagine, has his fortune entirely to make—­cannot be at all beforehand with the world.  Whatever money he might come into when his father died, whatever his share of the family property, it is, I dare say, all afloat, all employed in his stock, and so forth; and though, with diligence and good luck, he may be rich in time, it is next to impossible that he should have realised any thing yet.”