"What do you mean, sir?" asked Fairthorn. "My mind always misgives me
when I hear you quoting Horace. Some reflection about the certainty of
death, or other disagreeable subjects, is sure to follow!"

"Death! No, Dick--not now. Marriage-bells and joy, Dick! We shall have
a wedding!"

"What! You will marry at last! And it must be that beautiful Caroline
Lyndsay! It must--it must! You can never love another! You know it, my
dear, dear master. I shall see you, then, happy before I die."

"Tut, foolish old friend!" said Darrell, leaning his aria tenderly on
Fairthorn's shoulder, and walking on slowly towards the house. "How
often must I tell you that no Marriage-bells can ring for me!"

"But you have told me, too, that you went to Twickenham to steal a sight
of her again; and that it was the sight of her that made you resolve to
wed no one else. And when I have railed against her for fickleness, have
you not nearly frightened me out of my wits, as if no one might rail
against her but yourself? And now she is free--and did you not grant
that she would not refuse your hand, and would be true and faithful
henceforth? And yet you insist on being--granite."

"No, Dick, not granite; I wish I were."

"Granite and pride," persisted Dick, courageously. "If one chips a bit
off the granite, one only breaks one's spade against the pride."

"Pride--you too!" muttered Darrell, mournfully; then aloud: "No, it is
not pride now, whatever it might have been even yesterday. But I would