“My dear boy, a tough-hided traveler does not easily take offense.  Shall we walk?  D’you know, Master Desmond, I fancy I could make a shrewd guess at your trouble.  Your brother—­Richard, I think you said?—­is a farmer, he was born a farmer, he has the air of a farmer, and a well-doing farmer to boot.  But we are not all born with a love for mother earth, and you, meseems, have dreamed of a larger life than lies within the pin folds of a farm.  To tell the truth, my lad, I have been studying you.”

They were walking now side by side along the Newport road.  Desmond felt that the stranger was becoming personal; but his manner was so suave and sympathetic that he could not take offense.

“Yes, I have been studying you,” continued Diggle.  “And what is the sum of my discovery?  You are wasting your life here.  A country village is no place for a boy of ideas and imagination, of warm blood and springing fancy.  The world is wide, my friend:  why not adventure forth?”

“I have indeed thought of it, Mr. Diggle, but—­”

“But me no buts,” interrupted Diggle, with a smile.  “Your age is—­”

“Near sixteen.”

“Ah, still a boy; you have a year ere you reach the bourne of young manhood, as the Romans held it.  But what matters that?  Was not Scipio Africanus—­namesake of the ingenuous youth that serves me—­styled boy at twenty?  Yet you are old enough to walk alone, and not in leading strings—­or waiting maybe for dead men’s shoes.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Desmond flashed out, reddening with indignation.

“Do I offend you?” said Diggle innocently.  “I make apology.  But I had heard, I own, that Master Desmond Burke was in high favor with your squire; ’tis even whispered that Master Desmond cherishes, cultivates, cossets the old man—­a bachelor, I understand, and wealthy, and lacking kith or kin.  Sure I should never have believed ’twas with any dishonorable motive.”

“’Tis not, sir.  I never thought of such a thing.”

“I was sure of it.  But to come back to my starting point.  ’Tis time you broke these narrow bounds.  India, now—­what better sphere for a young man bent on making his way?  Look at Clive, whom you admire—­as stupid a boy as you could meet in a day’s march.  Why, I can remember—­”

He caught himself up, but after the slightest pause, resumed: 

“Forsan et haec ohm meminisse juvabit.  Look at Clive, I was saying; a lout, a bear, a booby—­as a boy, mark you; yet now!  Is there a man whose name rings more loudly in the world’s ear?  And what Robert Clive is, that Desmond Burke might be if he had the mind and the will.  You are going farther?  Ah, I have not your love of ambulation.  I will bid you farewell for this time; sure it will profit you to ponder my words.”

Desmond did ponder his words.  He walked for three or four hours, thinking all the time.  Who had said that he was waiting for the squire’s shoes?  He glowed with indignation at the idea of such a construction being placed upon his friendship for Sir Willoughby.