This ingenuous statement had a very distressing effect on Howard.  It is one thing to dally with a thought, however seriously, in one’s own mind, and something quite different to have it presented in black and white through the frank conjecture of another.  He put a severe constraint upon himself and said, “Do you know, Frank, the same thought had occurred to me—­I had believed that I saw something of the kind; and I can honestly say that I think Guthrie a very sound fellow indeed in every way—­quite apart from his worldly prospects.  He is straight, sensible, good-humoured, capable, and, I think, a really unselfish fellow.  If I had a daughter of my own I could not imagine a better husband.”

“You delight me inexpressibly,” said Mr. Sandys.  “So you had noticed it?  Well, well, I trust your perception far more than my own; and of course I am biassed—­you might almost incline to say dazzled—­by the prospect:  heir to a baronetcy (I could wish it had been of an earlier creation), rich, and, as you say, entirely reliable and straight.  Of course I don’t in any way wish to force matters on.  I could not bear to be thought to have unduly encouraged such an alliance—­and Maud may marry any nice fellow she has a fancy to marry; but I think that she is rather drawn to young Guthrie—­what do you think?  He amuses her, and she is at her best with him—­don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” said Howard, “I had thought so.  I think she likes him very much.”

“Well, we will leave it at that,” said Mr. Sandys in high gusto.  “You don’t mind my confiding in you thus, Howard?  Somehow, if I may say it, I find it very easy to speak confidentially to you.  You are so perceptive, so sympathetic!  We all feel that it is the secret of your great influence.”

They talked of other matters after this as they walked along the crest of the downs; and where the white road began to descend into the valley, with the roofs of Windlow glimmering in the trees a little to the north, Howard left the Vicar and retraced his steps.

He was acutely miserable; the thing had come upon him with a shock, and brought the truth home to him in a desperate way.  But he experienced at the same time a certain sensation, for a moment, of grim relief.  His fancy, his hope—­how absurd and idiotic they had been!—­were shattered.  How could he ever have dreamed that the girl should come to care for him in that way—­an elderly Don of settled habits, who had even mistaken a pompous condescension to the young men of his College for a natural and sympathetic relation—­that was what he was.  The melancholy truth stared him in the face.  He was sharply disillusioned.  He had lingered on, clinging pathetically to youth, and with a serene complacency he had overlooked the flight of time.  He was a dull, middle-aged man, fond of sentimental relations and trivial confidences, who had done nothing, effected nothing; had even egregiously failed in the one thing he had set himself to do,