"Have you any other views in life?"
"I can't say as I have any fixed. I shan't be idle, Mr. Morton. I never was idle. I was thinking perhaps of New Zealand."
"A very fine colony for a young man, no doubt. But, seeing how well you are established here—."
"I can't stay here, Mr. Morton. I've made up my mind about that. There are things which a man can't bear,—not and live quiet. As for hunting, I don't care about it any more than—nothing."
"I am sorry that anything should have made you so unhappy."
"Well;—I am unhappy. That's about the truth of it. And I always shall be unhappy here. There's nothing else for it but going away."
"If it's anything sudden, Mr. Twentyman, allow me to say that you ought not to sell your property without grave consideration."
"I have considered it,—very grave, Mr. Morton."
"Ah,—but I mean long consideration. Take a year to think of it. You can't buy such a place back in a year. I don't know you well enough to be justified in inquiring into the circumstances of your trouble;—but unless it be something which makes it altogether inexpedient, or almost impossible that you should remain in the neighbourhood, you should not sell Chowton."
"I'll tell you, Mr. Morton," said Larry almost weeping. Poor Larry whether in his triumph or his sorrow had no gift of reticence and now told his neighbour the whole story of his love. He was certain it had become quite hopeless. He was sure that she would never have written him a letter if there had been any smallest chance left. According to his ideas a girl might say "no" half-a-dozen times and yet not mean much; but when she had committed herself to a letter she could not go back from it.