“Well, why!” returned Sir Willoughby.  “As you say, there is no reason why.  The art of life, and mine will be principally a country life—­town is not life, but a tornado whirling atoms—­the art is to associate a group of sympathetic friends in our neighbourhood; and it is a fact worth noting that if ever I feel tired of the place, a short talk with Laetitia Dale refreshes it more than a month or two on the Continent.  She has the well of enthusiasm.  And there is a great advantage in having a cultivated person at command, with whom one can chat of any topic under the sun.  I repeat, you have no need of town if you have friends like Laetitia Dale within call.  My mother esteemed her highly.”

“Willoughby, she is not obliged to go.”

“I hope not.  And, my love, I rejoice that you have taken to her.  Her father’s health is poor.  She would be a young spinster to live alone in a country cottage.”

“What of your scheme?”

“Old Vernon is a very foolish fellow.”

“He has declined?”

“Not a word on the subject!  I have only to propose it to be snubbed, I know.”

“You may not be aware how you throw him into the shade with her.”

“Nothing seems to teach him the art of dialogue with ladies.”

“Are not gentlemen shy when they see themselves outshone?”

“He hasn’t it, my love:  Vernon is deficient in the lady’s tongue.”

“I respect him for that.”

“Outshone, you say?  I do not know of any shining—­save to one, who lights me, path and person!”

The identity of the one was conveyed to her in a bow and a soft pressure.

“Not only has he not the lady’s tongue, which I hold to be a man’s proper accomplishment,” continued Sir Willoughby, “he cannot turn his advantages to account.  Here has Miss Dale been with him now four days in the house.  They are exactly on the same footing as when she entered it.  You ask?  I will tell you.  It is this:  it is want of warmth.  Old Vernon is a scholar—­and a fish.  Well, perhaps he has cause to be shy of matrimony; but he is a fish.”

“You are reconciled to his leaving you?”

“False alarm!  The resolution to do anything unaccustomed is quite beyond old Vernon.”

“But if Mr. Oxford—­Whitford . . . your swans coming sailing up the lake, how beautiful they look when they are indignant!  I was going to ask you, surely men witnessing a marked admiration for some one else will naturally be discouraged?”

Sir Willoughby stiffened with sudden enlightenment.

Though the word jealousy had not been spoken, the drift of her observations was clear.  Smiling inwardly, he said, and the sentences were not enigmas to her:  “Surely, too, young ladies . . . a little?—­Too far?  But an old friendship!  About the same as the fitting of an old glove to a hand.  Hand and glove have only to meet.  Where there is natural harmony you would not have discord.  Ay, but you have it if you check the harmony.  My dear girl!  You child!”