“It will be some trial,” I said, “to my patience, though none to my constancy, none to the strength of my affection—­I will wait the year.”

“Exactly so,” rejoined Mr. Sherwin; “such candour and such reasonableness were to be expected from one who is quite the gentleman.  And now comes my grand difficulty in this business—­in fact, the little stipulation I have to make.”

He stopped, and ran his fingers through his hair, in all directions; his features fidgetting and distorting themselves ominously, while he looked at me.

“Pray explain yourself, Mr. Sherwin.  Your silence gives me some uneasiness at this particular moment, I assure you.”

“Quite so—­I understand.  Now, you must promise me not to be huffed—­offended, I should say—­at what I am going to propose.”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then, it may seem odd; but under all the circumstances—­that is to say, as far as the case concerns you personally—­I want you and my dear girl to be married at once, and yet not to be married exactly, for another year.  I don’t know whether you understand me?”

“I must confess I do not.”

He coughed rather uneasily; turned to the table, and poured out another glass of sherry—­his hand trembling a little as he did so.  He drank off the wine at a draught; cleared his throat three or four times after it; and then spoke again.

“Well, to be still plainer, this is how the matter stands:  If you were a party in our rank of life, coming to court Margaret with your father’s full approval and permission when once you had consented to the year’s engagement, everything would be done and settled; the bargain would have been struck on both sides; and there would be an end of it.  But, situated as you are, I can’t stop here safely—­I mean, I can’t end the agreement exactly in this way.”

He evidently felt that he got fluent on wine; and helped himself, at this juncture, to another glass.

“You will see what I am driving at, my dear Sir, directly,” he continued.  “Suppose now, you came courting my daughter for a year, as we settled; and suppose your father found it out—­we should keep it a profound secret of course:  but still, secrets are sometimes found out, nobody knows how.  Suppose, I say, your father got scent of the thing, and the match was broken off; where do you think Margaret’s reputation would be?  If it happened with somebody in her own station, we might explain it all, and be believed:  but happening with somebody in yours, what would the world say?  Would the world believe you had ever intended to marry her?  That’s the point—­that’s the point precisely.”

“But the case could not happen—­I am astonished you can imagine it possible.  I have told you already, I am of age.”