'I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so.'

The archdeacon looked across at his son's face, and his heart sank
within him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him two
things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace
Crawley was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be
talked out of his folly. 'But you are not engaged to anyone, are you?'
said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, and then
the father repeated the question. 'Considering our mutual positions,
Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged.'

'I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first
opportunity of telling you or my mother.'

'Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. The young
woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr Crawley who is
perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothing in
it.'

'But there is something in it, sir.'

'What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it
you mean?'

'It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such a subject.
When you express yourself as thankful that there is nothing in the
rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that
hereafter you may say that I have deceived you.'

'But you don't mean to marry her?'