“That would be very sad,” said Bell; “but I don’t see it.”

“If you were engaged to a man you would be much better to him.  You would not say so much, but what you did say would be all affection.  I am always making horrid little speeches, for which I should like to cut out my tongue afterwards.”

“Whatever sort of speeches they are, I think that he likes them.”

“Does he?  I’m not all so sure of that, Bell.  Of course I don’t expect that he is to scold me,—­not yet, that is.  But I know by his eye when he is pleased and when he is displeased.”

And then they went down to their dinner.

Up at the Great House the three gentlemen met together in apparent good humour.  Bernard Dale was a man of an equal temperament, who rarely allowed any feeling, or even any annoyance, to interfere with his usual manner,—­a man who could always come to table with a smile, and meet either his friend or his enemy with a properly civil greeting.  Not that he was especially a false man.  There was nothing of deceit in his placidity of demeanour.  It arose from true equanimity; but it was the equanimity of a cold disposition rather than of one well ordered by discipline.  The squire was aware that he had been unreasonably petulant before dinner, and having taken himself to task in his own way, now entered the dining-room with the courteous greeting of a host.  “I find that your bag was not so bad after all,” he said, “and I hope that your appetite is at least as good as your bag.”

Crosbie smiled, and made himself pleasant, and said a few flattering words.  A man who intends to take some very decided step in an hour or two generally contrives to bear himself in the meantime as though the trifles of the world were quite sufficient for him.  So he praised the squire’s game; said a good-natured word as to Dingles, and bantered himself as to his own want of skill.  Then all went merry, not quite as a marriage bell; but still merry enough for a party of three gentlemen.

But Crosbie’s resolution was fixed; and as soon, therefore, as the old butler was permanently gone, and the wine steadily in transit upon the table, he began his task, not without some apparent abruptness.  Having fully considered the matter, he had determined that he would not wait for Bernard Dale’s absence.  He thought it possible that he might be able to fight his battle better in Bernard’s presence than he should do behind his back.

“Squire,” he began.  They all called him squire when they were on good terms together, and Crosbie thought it well to begin as though there was nothing amiss between them.  “Squire, of course I am thinking a good deal at the present moment as to my intended marriage.”

“That’s natural enough,” said the squire.

“Yes, by George! sir, a man doesn’t make a change like that without finding that he has got something to think of.”

“I suppose not,” said the squire.  “I never was in the way of getting married myself, but I can easily understand that.”