‘Are the dates all right?’ asked Merton.
‘Oh, bother the dates! Of course he is a bravo pour le bon motif, and frustrates the pontifical designs.’
‘I want you,’ said Merton, ‘you have such a fertile imagination, to take part in a little plot of our own. Beneficent, of course, but I admit that my fancy is baffled. Could we find a room less crowded? This is rather private business.’
‘There is never anybody in the smoking-room at the top of the house,’ said Miss Martin, ‘because—to let out a secret—none of us ever smoke, except at public dinners to give tone. But you may.’
She led Merton to a sepulchral little chamber upstairs, and he told her all the story of Mr. Warren, his son, and the daughter of the minister.
‘Why don’t they elope?’ asked Miss Martin.
‘The Nonconformist conscience is unfriendly to elopements, and the young man has no accomplishment by which he could support his bride except the art of making oilcloth.’
‘Well, what do you want me to do?’
Merton unfolded the scheme of the lady lecturer, and prepared Miss Martin to receive an invitation from Mr. Warren.
‘Can you write a lecture on “The Use and Abuse of Novels” before Friday week?’ he asked.