"But if he was taken to a warmer climate----"
"The end would only be retarded for a few months," interrupted the curate. "Demetrius says there is no hope. And I don't think the poor fellow is sorry to go, Joan. He has no relatives, and few friends. I fancy he has had a lonely life."
The tears filled Joan's brown eyes. "Poor fellow!" she echoed, stealing one hand into that of her lover's. "Fancy, if we----"
"I can't fancy it with you by my side. And what is more, I don't intend to fancy it," said Lionel, hastily. "Please God, you and I have many happy and useful years before us. How do you like the Firmingham vicarage, Joan?"
"Oh, it's lovely, and such a sweet church. But I fear it's too good to be true."
"Perhaps it's not what you want," joked the curate. "If I were the Duke, now!"
"Ah, that's impossible," she laughed, amused at the idea of being a duchess; "the very idea frightens me."
"It needn't," Lionel assured her: "you will never be called upon to wear strawberry leaves, unless the Duke and Frith and Jim all go the way poor Garth is taking. And then Frith's wife may have a little Lord Firmingham. I sincerely hope so, as it would never do for Jim to be the Duke of Pentland."
"You don't like him?"
"Not passionately," said the curate, dryly.