"And I told him, also, that let your inclinations be what they might, you were too much of a gentleman, to say nothing of a Christian, to be seriously intent on destroying the happiness of a devoted couple—such as his daughter and her cousin Walter, for instance—by doing anything—anything, I said, my dear fellow—to sever them in affection. I hope I did not put it too strong, did I, John?"
"No, no; not at all too strong," said John.
"I told him that you knew perfectly well of their long engagement; and that I could answer for you—"
"Thank you; thank you, Mr. Grigson."
"That I could answer for you that you would not go near the farm again, if such ridiculous deductions were drawn from your innocent and merely friendly visits. Was I right?"
"Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt." But John did not utter this so readily as he had before spoken. "And what did Mr. Mark say to all this?" he asked.
"Why, to tell the truth, he did not listen to it so attentively as he should have done, I am afraid, and so my eloquence was wasted. He had got hold of the story of your walking home with his daughter that night of the picnic—you remember it, don't you, my dear John? And if that didn't mean something, he did not know what did. So he said."
"But you told him, Mr. Grigson, that it was done without intending it, that it was quite accidental, in fact, and indeed rendered necessary by circumstances?"
"Just my very words, I assure you, John; and I put it quite strongly too. And what do you think he said to that?"
John did not know, and could not guess.