Some time later Vernon and Dr. Corney were arguing upon the question.  Corney was dead against the sentimental view of the morality of the case propounded by Vernon as coming from Miss Middleton and partly shared by him.  “If it’s on the boy’s mind,” Vernon said, “I can’t prohibit his going to Willoughby and making a clean breast of it, especially as it involves me, and sooner or later I should have to tell him myself.”

Dr. Corney said no at all points.  “Now hear me,” he said, finally.  “This is between ourselves, and no breach of confidence, which I’d not be guilty of for forty friends, though I’d give my hand from the wrist-joint for one—­my left, that’s to say.  Sir Willoughby puts me one or two searching interrogations on a point of interest to him, his house and name.  Very well, and good night to that, and I wish Miss Dale had been ten years younger, or had passed the ten with no heartrisings and sinkings wearing to the tissues of the frame and the moral fibre to boot.  She’ll have a fairish health, with a little occasional doctoring; taking her rank and wealth in right earnest, and shying her pen back to Mother Goose.  She’ll do.  And, by the way, I think it’s to the credit of my sagacity that I fetched Mr. Dale here fully primed, and roused the neighbourhood, which I did, and so fixed our gentleman, neat as a prodded eel on a pair of prongs—­namely, the positive fact and the general knowledge of it.  But, mark me, my friend.  We understand one another at a nod.  This boy, young Squire Crossjay, is a good stiff hearty kind of a Saxon boy, out of whom you may cut as gallant a fellow as ever wore epaulettes.  I like him, you like him, Miss Dale and Miss Middleton like him; and Sir Willoughby Patterne, of Patterne Hall and other places, won’t be indisposed to like him mightily in the event of the sun being seen to shine upon him with a particular determination to make him appear a prominent object, because a solitary, and a Patterne.”  Dr. Corney lifted his chest and his finger:  “Now mark me, and verbum sap:  Crossjay must not offend Sir Willoughby.  I say no more.  Look ahead.  Miracles happen, but it’s best to reckon that they won’t.  Well, now, and Miss Dale.  She’ll not be cruel.”

“It appears as if she would,” said Vernon, meditating on the cloudy sketch Dr. Corney had drawn.

“She can’t, my friend.  Her position’s precarious; her father has little besides a pension.  And her writing damages her health.  She can’t.  And she likes the baronet.  Oh, it’s only a little fit of proud blood.  She’s the woman for him.  She’ll manage him—­give him an idea he’s got a lot of ideas.  It’d kill her father if she were obstinate.  He talked to me, when I told him of the business, about his dream fulfilled, and if the dream turns to vapour, he’ll be another example that we hang more upon dreams than realities for nourishment, and medicine too.  Last week I couldn’t have got him out of his house with all my art and science.  Oh, she’ll come round.  Her father prophesied this, and I’ll prophesy that.  She’s fond of him.”