‘I have been to Boxall Hill, sir.’

The tenor of his father’s thoughts was changed in an instant; and the dread of immediate temporary annoyance gave place to true anxiety for his son.  He, the squire, had been no party to Mary’s exile from his own domain; and he had seen with pain that she had now a second time been driven from her home:  but he had never hitherto questioned the expediency of separating his son from Mary Thorne.  Alas! it had become too necessary—­too necessary through his own default—­that Frank should marry money!

’At Boxall Hill, Frank!  Has that been prudent?  Or, indeed, has it been generous to Miss Thorne, who has been driven there, as it were, by your imprudence?’

‘Father, it is well that we should understand each other about this—­’

‘Fill your glass, Frank;’ Frank mechanically did as he was told, and passed the bottle.

’I should never forgive myself were I to deceive you, or keep anything from you.’

‘I believe it is not in your nature to deceive me, Frank.’

’The fact is, sir, that I have made up my mind that Mary Thorne shall be my wife—­sooner or later, that is, unless, of course, she should utterly refuse.  Hitherto, she has utterly refused me.  I believe I may now say that she has accepted me.’

The squire sipped his claret, but at the moment said nothing.  There was a quiet, manly, but yet modest determination about his son that he had hardly noticed before.  Frank had become legally of age, legally a man, when he was twenty-one.  Nature, it seems, had postponed the ceremony till he was twenty-two.  Nature often does postpone the ceremony even to a much later age;—­sometimes, altogether forgets to accomplish it.

The squire continued to sip his claret; he had to think over the matter a while before he could answer a statement so deliberately made by his son.

‘I think I may say so,’ continued Frank, with perhaps unnecessary modesty.  ’She is so honest that, had she not intended it, she would have said so honestly.  Am I right, father, in thinking that, as regards Mary, personally, you would not reject her as a daughter-in-law?’

‘Personally!’ said the squire, glad to have the subject presented to him in a view that enabled him to speak out.  ’Oh, no; personally, I should not object to her, for I love her dearly.  She is a good girl.  I do believe she is a good girl in every respect.  I have always liked her; liked to see her about the house.  But—­’

‘I know what you would say, father.’  This was rather more than the squire knew himself.  ‘Such a marriage is imprudent.’

‘It is more than that, Frank; I fear that is impossible.’

‘Impossible!  No, father; it is not impossible.’

’It is impossible, Frank, in the usual sense.  What are you to live upon?  What would you do with your children?  You would not wish to see your wife distressed and comfortless.’