“Ah, Sir Willoughby, but it becomes a father to see that his daughter is not forced into delicate situations.  I hope all is well.  I am confused.  It may be my head.  She puzzles me.  You are not . . .  Can I ask it here?  You are quite . . . ?  Will you moderate my anxiety?  My infirmities must excuse me.”

Sir Willoughby conveyed by a shake of the head and a pressure of Mr. Dale’s hand, that he was not, and that he was quite.

“Dr Middleton?” said Mr. Dale.

“He leaves us to-morrow.”

“Really!” The invalid wore a look as if wine had been poured into him.  He routed his host’s calculations by calling to the Rev. Doctor.  “We are to lose you, sir?”

Willoughby attempted an interposition, but Dr. Middleton crashed through it like the lordly organ swallowing a flute.

“Not before I score my victory, Mr. Dale, and establish my friend upon his rightful throne.”

“You do not leave to-morrow, sir?”

“Have you heard, sir, that I leave to-morrow?”

Mr. Dale turned to Sir Willoughby.

The latter said:  “Clara named to-day.  To-morrow I thought preferable.”

“Ah!” Dr. Middleton towered on the swelling exclamation, but with no dark light.  He radiated splendidly.  “Yes, then, to-morrow.  That is, if we subdue the lady.”

He advanced to Willoughby, seized his hand, squeezed it, thanked him, praised him.  He spoke under his breath, for a wonder; but:  “We are in your debt lastingly, my friend”, was heard, and he was impressive, he seemed subdued, and saying aloud:  “Though I should wish to aid in the reduction of that fortress”, he let it be seen that his mind was rid of a load.

Dr. Middleton partly stupefied Willoughby by his way of taking it, but his conduct was too serviceable to allow of speculation on his readiness to break the match.  It was the turning-point of the engagement.

Lady Busshe made a stir.

“I cannot keep my horses waiting any longer,” she said, and beckoned.  Sir Willoughby was beside her immediately.

“You are admirable! perfect!  Don’t ask me to hold my tongue.  I retract, I recant.  It is a fatality.  I have resolved upon that view.  You could stand the shot of beauty, not of brains.  That is our report.  There!  And it’s delicious to feel that the county wins you.  No tea.  I cannot possibly wait.  And, oh! here she is.  I must have a look at her.  My dear Laetitia Dale!”

Willoughby hurried to Mr. Dale.

“You are not to be excited, sir:  compose yourself.  You will recover and be strong to-morrow:  you are at home; you are in your own house; you are in Laetitia’s drawing-room.  All will be clear to-morrow.  Till to-morrow we talk riddles by consent.  Sit, I beg.  You stay with us.”

He met Laetitia and rescued her from Lady Busshe, murmuring, with the air of a lover who says, “my love! my sweet!” that she had done rightly to come and come at once.  Her father had been thrown into the proper condition of clammy nervousness to create the impression.  Laetitia’s anxiety sat prettily on her long eyelashes as she bent over him in his chair.