of fact, or not for many years.

Carlos, then, Rooksby's Spanish kinsman, had come and gone, and I
envied him his going, with his air of mystery, to some far-off lawless
adventures--perhaps over there in Spain, where there were war and
rebellion. Shortly afterwards Rooksby proposed for the hand of Veronica
and was accepted--by my mother. Veronica went about looking happy. That
upset me, too. It seemed unjust that she should go out into the great
world--to Bath, to Brighton, should see the Prince Regent and the great
fights on Hounslow Heath--whilst I was to remain forever a farmer's boy.
That afternoon I was upstairs, looking at the reflection of myself in
the tall glass, wondering miserably why I seemed to be such an oaf.

The voice of Rooksby hailed me suddenly from downstairs. "Hey,
John--John Kemp; come down, I say!"

I started away from the glass as if I had been taken in an act of folly.
Rooksby was flicking his leg with his switch in the doorway, at the
bottom of the narrow flight of stairs.

He wanted to talk to me, he said, and I followed him out through the
yard on to the soft road that climbs the hill to westward. The evening
was falling slowly and mournfully; it was dark already in the folds of
the sombre downs.

We passed the corner of the orchard. "I know what you've got to tell
me," I said. "You're going to marry Veronica. Well, you've no need of my
blessing. Some people have all the luck. Here am I . . . look at me!"

Ralph walked with his head bent down.