'I would have said, most probably--I will not be certain of my exact
words in a suppositious case--that you were a young fool, but not a
dishonourable young fool, and I should have told you not to let your
thoughts run upon a calf-love until you had magnified it into a
passion. And I dare say, to make up for the mortification I should have
given you, I should have prescribed your joining the Hollingford
Cricket Club, and set you at liberty as often as I could on the
Saturday afternoons. As it is, I must write to your father's agent in
London, and ask him to remove you out of my household, repaying the
premium, of course, which will enable you to start afresh in some other
doctor's surgery.'

'It will so grieve my father,' said Mr. Coxe, startled into dismay, if
not repentance.

'I see no other course open. It will give Major Coxe some trouble (I
shall take care that he is at no extra expense), but what I think will
grieve him the most is the betrayal of confidence; for I trusted you,
Edward, like a son of my own!' There was something in Mr. Gibson's
voice when he spoke seriously, especially when he referred to any
feeling of his own--he who so rarely betrayed what was passing in his
heart--that was irresistible to most people: the change from joking and
sarcasm to tender gravity.

Mr. Coxe hung his head a little, and meditated.

'I do love Miss Gibson,' said he at length. 'Who could help it?'

'Mr. Wynne, I hope!' said Mr. Gibson.