"The Lord mend your wit, then. I must be plain, I see. What about a wife?"
"Oh, that's all arranged for," replied the Squire stolidly, and with never a blush, so matter-of-fact was he.
"And you never told me," murmured Carrington reproachfully.
"You never asked me."
"No," said the other, wondering at this phlegmatic nature. "I didn't." Then he lapsed into musing, and Rupert, never a talker at the best of times, strode beside him silent and comfortably happy.
So the possibility had become a probability, and a feminine influence had to be reckoned with after all. This was what Carrington had dreaded, and he blamed himself for not having asked the question before. Had he done so, he might have been introduced to the lady and then would have been able to judge what sort of a marplot she would prove to be. However, he hoped to meet her when he next came down, which would be very soon, and meanwhile, true to his plan of campaign, he laughed amiably at Rupert's reticence.
"You always did take things stolidly at school, Hendle," he said, arching his finely penciled eyebrows, "and you have not changed in this respect. Who is she?"
"My cousin--a third or fourth cousin. We have known each other all our lives, and that is why we know we will be happy."
"Familiarity doesn't breed contempt in this case, then," said the barrister lightly. "As you have known her all her life, I presume she lives hereabouts?"
"Oh, yes. At the other end of the village."