The slight smile upon his face, as he rode out of the gates, died away as soon as he found himself in the solitude of the lanes.  He slackened his speed, and began to think.  It was very awkward, he considered, to have a motherless girl growing up into womanhood in the same house with two young men, even if she only met them at meal-times; and all the intercourse they had with each other was merely the utterance of such words as, ‘May I help you to potatoes?’ or, as Mr. Wynne would persevere in saying, ’May I assist you to potatoes?’—­a form of speech which grated daily more and more upon Mr. Gibson’s cars.  Yet Mr. Coxe, the offender in this affair which had just occurred, had to remain for three years more as a pupil in Mr Gibson’s family.  He should be the very last of the race.  Still there were three years to be got over; and if this stupid passionate calf-love of his lasted, what was to be done?  Sooner or later Molly would become aware of it.  The contingencies of the affair were so excessively disagreeable to contemplate, that Mr. Gibson determined to dismiss the subject from his mind by a good strong effort.  He put his horse to a gallop, and found that the violent shaking over the lanes—­paved as they were with round stones, which had been dislocated by the wear and tear of a hundred years—­was the very best thing for the spirits, if not for the bones.  He made a long round that afternoon, and came back to his home imagining that the worst was over, and that Mr. Coxe would have taken the hint conveyed in the prescription.  All that would be needed was to find a safe place for the unfortunate Bethia, who had displayed such a daring aptitude for intrigue.  But Mr. Gibson reckoned without his host.  It was the habit of the young men to come in to tea with the family in the dining-room, to swallow two cups, munch their bread or toast, and then disappear.  This night Mr. Gibson watched their countenances furtively from under his long eye-lashes, while he tried against his wont to keep up a degage manner, and a brisk conversation on general subjects.  He saw that Mr. Wynne was on the point of breaking out into laughter, and that red-haired, red-faced Mr. Coxe was redder and fiercer than ever, while his whole aspect and ways betrayed indignation and anger.

‘He will have it, will he?’ thought Mr. Gibson to himself; and he girded up his loins for the battle.  He did not follow Molly and Miss Eyre into the drawing-room as he usually did.  He remained where he was, pretending to read the newspaper, while Bethia, her face swelled up with crying, and with an aggrieved and offended aspect, removed the tea-things.  Not five minutes after the room was cleared, came the expected tap at the door.  ‘May I speak to you, sir?’ said the invisible Mr. Coxe, from outside.

’To be sure.  Come in, Mr. Coxe.  I was rather wanting to talk to you about that bill of Corbyn’s.  Pray sit down.’

’It is about nothing of that kind, sir, that I wanted—­that I wished—­ No, thank you—­I would rather not sit down.’  He, accordingly, stood in offended dignity.  ’It is about that letter, sir—­that letter with the insulting prescription, sir.’