“If I supposed it could err, Miss Dale, I should not be so certain of myself.  I am bound up in my good opinion of you, you see; and you must continue the same, or where shall I be?” Thus he was led to dwell upon friendship, and the charm of the friendship of men and women, “Platonism”, as it was called.  “I have laughed at it in the world, but not in the depth of my heart.  The world’s platonic attachments are laughable enough.  You have taught me that the ideal of friendship is possible—­when we find two who are capable of a disinterested esteem.  The rest of life is duty; duty to parents, duty to country.  But friendship is the holiday of those who can be friends.  Wives are plentiful, friends are rare.  I know how rare!”

Laetitia swallowed her thoughts as they sprang up.  Why was he torturing her?—­to give himself a holiday?  She could bear to lose him—­she was used to it—­and bear his indifference, but not that he should disfigure himself; it made her poor.  It was as if he required an oath of her when he said:  “Italy!  But I shall never see a day in Italy to compare with the day of my return to England, or know a pleasure so exquisite as your welcome of me.  Will you be true to that?  May I look forward to just another such meeting?”

He pressed her for an answer.  She gave the best she could.  He was dissatisfied, and to her hearing it was hardly in the tone of manliness that he entreated her to reassure him; he womanized his language.  She had to say:  “I am afraid I can not undertake to make it an appointment, Sir Willoughby,” before he recovered his alertness, which he did, for he was anything but obtuse, with the reply, “You would keep it if you promised, and freeze at your post.  So, as accidents happen, we must leave it to fate.  The will’s the thing.  You know my detestation of changes.  At least I have you for my tenant, and wherever I am, I see your light at the end of my park.”

“Neither my father nor I would willingly quit Ivy Cottage,” said Laetitia.

“So far, then,” he murmured.  “You will give me a long notice, and it must be with my consent if you think of quitting?”

“I could almost engage to do that,” she said.

“You love the place?”

“Yes; I am the most contented of cottagers.”

“I believe, Miss Dale, it would be well for my happiness were I a cottager.”

“That is the dream of the palace.  But to be one, and not to wish to be other, is quiet sleep in comparison.”

“You paint a cottage in colours that tempt one to run from big houses and households.”

“You would run back to them faster, Sir Willoughby.”

“You may know me,” said he, bowing and passing on contentedly.  He stopped.  “But I am not ambitious.”

“Perhaps you are too proud for ambition, Sir Willoughby.”

“You hit me to the life!”

He passed on regretfully.  Clara Middleton did not study and know him like Laetitia Dale.