“Its an awful nuisance,” he burst out, “and I do think it’s hard on a fellow to be left unsupported just at this ticklish point. You could be of untold good—you have been already, of that I’m certain. Anne likes you, and likes to talk of you. Now a great blundering fellow might have done a lot of mischief. Crammed me down her throat, or tried to cut me out. I vow I wouldn’t have trusted any one but you yesterday in the boat. When I heard that she was coming along with some man, I was awfully cut up, I can tell you; and Mrs Martyn never let out who it was. Just like the woman! It was Miss—what’s she called?—Ravenstone who cleared me up. Why don’t you take to that little girl? A good soul, with a heart of gold, and a dimple. I’ve heard you say you loved dimples, and, upon my soul, I never saw a prettier.”
Wareham’s irritated exclamation was restrained by the recollection that here was the very suggestion which he had intended for Hugh himself, presented topsy-turvily. He was forced to laugh.
“Arrange matters for yourself, only leave me out of the pattern, for I don’t harmonise.”
Hugh rushed into farther confidences, but owned that he was in a funk.
“If I could but imagine what upset the coach last time,” he complained, “I’d take good care to avoid it again; but I give you my word you know as much as I do. She won’t speak of it, won’t listen, won’t so much as drop me a hint; and to think of her bolting again puts me in such a devil of a fright that I daren’t hold on to the subject. Now, Dick, if you’d stay and sound her a bit, I should be awfully obliged to you.”
That or any other subject. His heart jumped like a hungry dog, grateful for a bone. He had to recall himself to his resolve.
“Can’t.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not your own master.”
“No man is his own master that has set his shoulder to the wheel.”
“Well”—Hugh walked on, revolving—“there are twenty-four hours yet; you may get a chance in that time.”