It will be said that Bernard Dale was not in love; but they who bring such accusation against him, will bring it falsely.  He was in love with his cousin Bell according to his manner and fashion.  It was not his nature to love Bell as John Eames loved Lily; but then neither would his nature bring him into such a trouble as that which the charms of Amelia Roper had brought upon the poor clerk from the Income-tax Office.  Johnny was susceptible, as the word goes; whereas Captain Dale was a man who had his feelings well under control.  He was not one to make a fool of himself about a girl, or to die of a broken heart; but, nevertheless, he would probably love his wife when he got a wife, and would be a careful father to his children.

They were very intimate with each other now,—­these four.  It was Bernard and Adolphus, or sometimes Apollo, and Bell and Lily among them; and Crosbie found it to be pleasant enough.  A new position of life had come upon him, and one exceeding pleasant; but, nevertheless, there were moments in which cold fits of a melancholy nature came upon him.  He was doing the very thing which throughout all the years of his manhood he had declared to himself that he would not do.  According to his plan of life he was to have eschewed marriage, and to have allowed himself to regard it as a possible event only under the circumstances of wealth, rank, and beauty all coming in his way together.  As he had expected no such glorious prize, he had regarded himself as a man who would reign at the Beaufort and be potent at Sebright’s to the end of his chapter.  But now—­

It was the fact that he had fallen from his settled position, vanquished by a silver voice, a pretty wit, and a pair of moderately bright eyes.  He was very fond of Lily, having in truth a stronger capability for falling in love than his friend Captain Dale; but was the sacrifice worth his while?  This was the question which he asked himself in those melancholy moments; while he was lying in bed, for instance, awake in the morning, when he was shaving himself, and sometimes also when the squire was prosy after dinner.  At such times as these, while he would be listening to Mr Dale, his self-reproaches would sometimes be very bitter.  Why should he undergo this, he, Crosbie of Sebright’s, Crosbie of the General Committee Office, Crosbie who would allow no one to bore him between Charing Cross and the far end of Bayswater,—­why should he listen to the long-winded stories of such a one as Squire Dale?  If, indeed, the squire intended to be liberal to his niece, then it might be very well.  But as yet the squire had given no sign of such intention, and Crosbie was angry with himself in that he had not had the courage to ask a question on that subject.