“Yes,” said Leigh, gravely, “because you are going down.”
A year and a half glided by, and Kate Wilton had become full mistress of her property, and other matters remained, as the lawyers say, “in statu quo,” save that Jenny was back with her brother. James Wilton was very much broken, and his son was beginning to be talked of as a rising agriculturist. John Garstang was at Boulogne, and his stepson had married a wealthy Australian widow in Sydney.
Jenny had again and again tried to urge her brother to propose to Kate, but in vain.
“It is so stupid of you, dear,” she said. “I know she’d say yes to you, directly. Of course any girl would if you asked her.”
“Yes, I’m a noble specimen of humanity,” said Leigh, dryly.
“I believe you’re the proudest and most sensitive man that ever lived,” cried Jenny, angrily.
“One of them, sis.”
“And next time I shall advise her to propose to you. You couldn’t refuse.”
“You are too late, dear,” he said, gravely, as he recalled a letter he had received a month before, in which he had been reproached for ignoring the writer’s existence, and forcing her to humble herself and write.