"What do you mean, sir?" Desmond flashed out, reddening with indignation.

"Do I offend you?" said Diggle innocently. "I make apology. But I had
heard, I own, that Master Desmond Burke was in high favor with your
squire; 'tis even whispered that Master Desmond cherishes, cultivates,
cossets the old man--a bachelor, I understand, and wealthy, and lacking
kith or kin. Sure I should never have believed 'twas with any
dishonorable motive."

"'Tis not, sir. I never thought of such a thing."

"I was sure of it. But to come back to my starting point. 'Tis time you
broke these narrow bounds. India, now--what better sphere for a young man
bent on making his way? Look at Clive, whom you admire--as stupid a boy
as you could meet in a day's march. Why, I can remember--"

He caught himself up, but after the slightest pause, resumed:

"Forsan et haec ohm meminisse juvabit. Look at Clive, I was saying; a
lout, a bear, a booby--as a boy, mark you; yet now! Is there a man whose
name rings more loudly in the world's ear? And what Robert Clive is, that
Desmond Burke might be if he had the mind and the will. You are going
farther? Ah, I have not your love of ambulation. I will bid you farewell
for this time; sure it will profit you to ponder my words."

Desmond did ponder his words. He walked for three or four hours, thinking
all the time. Who had said that he was waiting for the squire's shoes? He
glowed with indignation at the idea of such a construction being placed
upon his friendship for Sir Willoughby.