"John, you are a splendid fellow!" said he.
John did not think so of himself, and he said he did not.
"True greatness is always modest," said Tom; "and, by the way," he added, "that's no discovery of mine, so don't give me credit for it. But I say you are a noble fellow; only I want to know why you have kept all this from me, most admirable Crichton?"
"Why should I have troubled—"
"Nonsense about trouble! But I know all about it from Dick. By the way, he has sent me a cheque that will clear Dry's bill; but this isn't what I was going to say. Why, Dick worships you, that's what he does; and he says if you don't keep your wedding at the Manor, he'll never forgive you. And I am to go down and see you turned off—I beg your pardon, John, but you are such a fellow, you know; and if we don't have such a picnic of it as was never known before at the old place, it won't be Dick's fault. And I wish you joy, John, and happiness, and success, and all that sort of thing; so there!"
And he wrung Tincroft's hand again, till tears started from his eyes.
"It is very good of you," said John, "and of Mr. Richard; but I would rather the wedding should go off quietly."
But it did not go off quietly. Perhaps, however, one picnic in a story is enough, and it will be sufficient to place on record here that on a certain day in June, years ago, but in less than a year from the date of our first chapter, was married in the parish church of a certain village in Blankshire, John Tincroft, gentleman, of Oxford, to Sarah Wilson, spinster, of the above parish.
