“Who is there?” said Clara, beating for the lady in her mind.

“Women,” said Willoughby, “are born match-makers, and the most persuasive is a young bride.  With a man—­and a man like old Vernon!—­ she is irresistible.  It is my wish, and that arms you.  It is your wish, that subjugates him.  If he goes, he goes for good.  If he stays, he is my friend.  I deal simply with him, as with every one.  It is the secret of authority.  Now Miss Dale will soon lose her father.  He exists on a pension; she has the prospect of having to leave the neighbourhood of the Hall, unless she is established near us.  Her whole heart is in this region; it is the poor soul’s passion.  Count on her agreeing.  But she will require a little wooing:  and old Vernon wooing!  Picture the scene to yourself, my love.  His notion of wooing.  I suspect, will be to treat the lady like a lexicon, and turn over the leaves for the word, and fly through the leaves for another word, and so get a sentence.  Don’t frown at the poor old fellow, my Clara; some have the language on their tongues, and some have not.  Some are very dry sticks; manly men, honest fellows, but so cut away, so polished away from the sex, that they are in absolute want of outsiders to supply the silken filaments to attach them.  Actually!” Sir Willoughby laughed in Clara’s face to relax the dreamy stoniness of her look.  “But I can assure you, my dearest, I have seen it.  Vernon does not know how to speak—­as we speak.  He has, or he had, what is called a sneaking affection for Miss Dale.  It was the most amusing thing possible; his courtship!—­the air of a dog with an uneasy conscience, trying to reconcile himself with his master!  We were all in fits of laughter.  Of course it came to nothing.”

“Will Mr. Whitford,” said Clara, “offend you to extinction if he declines?”

Willoughby breathed an affectionate “Tush!” to her silliness.

“We bring them together, as we best can.  You see, Clara, I desire, and I will make some sacrifices to detain him.”

“But what do you sacrifice?—­a cottage?” said Clara, combative at all points.

“An ideal, perhaps.  I lay no stress on sacrifice.  I strongly object to separations.  And therefore, you will say, I prepare the ground for unions?  Put your influence to good service, my love.  I believe you could persuade him to give us the Highland fling on the drawing-room table.”

“There is nothing to say to him of Crossjay?”

“We hold Crossjay in reserve.”

“It is urgent.”

“Trust me.  I have my ideas.  I am not idle.  That boy bids fair for a capital horseman.  Eventualities might . . .”  Sir Willoughby murmured to himself, and addressing his bride, “The cavalry?  If we put him into the cavalry, we might make a gentleman of him—­not be ashamed of him.  Or, under certain eventualities, the Guards.  Think it over, my love.  De Craye, who will, I suppose, act best man for me, supposing old Vernon