But this John Eames declined, pleasing the earl better by doing so than he would have done by accepting it.  Not that the lord was inhospitable or insincere in his offer, but he preferred that such a one as John Eames should receive his proffered familiarity without too much immediate assurance.  He felt that Eames was a little in awe of his companion’s rank, and he liked him the better for it.  He liked him the better for it, and was a man apt to remember his likings.  “If you won’t come in, Good-bye,” and he gave Johnny his hand.

“Good-evening, my lord,” said Johnny.

“And remember this; it is the deuce of a thing to have rheumatism in your loins.  I wouldn’t go to sleep under a tree, if I were you,—­not in October.  But you’re always welcome to go anywhere about the place.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“And if you should take to shooting,—­but I dare say you won’t; and if you come to trouble, and want advice, or that sort of thing, write to me.  I knew your father well.”  And so they parted, Eames returning on his road towards Guestwick.

For some reason, which he could not define, he felt better after his interview with the earl.  There had been something about the fat, good-natured, sensible old man, which had cheered him, in spite of his sorrow.  “Pheasants for dinner are rubbish,—­mere rubbish,” he said to himself, over and over again, as he went along the road; and they were the first words which he spoke to his mother, after entering the house.

“I wish we had some of that sort of rubbish,” said she.

“So you will, to-morrow”; and then he described to her his interview.

“The earl was, at any rate, quite right about lying upon the ground.  I wonder you can be so foolish.  And he is right about your poor father too.  But you have got to change your boots; and we shall be ready for dinner almost immediately.”

But Johnny Eames, before he sat down to dinner, did write his letter to Amelia, and did go out to post it with his own hands,—­much to his mother’s annoyance.  But the letter would not get itself written in that strong and appropriate language which had come to him as he was roaming through the woods.  It was a bald letter, and somewhat cowardly withal.

   Dear Amelia [the letter ran],

I have received both of yours; and did not answer the first because I felt that there was a difficulty in expressing what I wish to say; and now it will be better that you should allow the subject to stand over till I am back in town.  I shall be there in ten days from this.  I have been quite well, and am so; but of course am much obliged by your inquiries.  I know you will think this very cold; but when I tell you everything, you will agree with me that it is best.  If I were to marry, I know that we should be unhappy, because we should have nothing to live on.  If I have ever said anything to deceive you, I beg your pardon with all my heart;—­but perhaps it will be better to let the subject remain till we shall meet again in London.

   Believe me to be