“But you must take it, Cyril,” said his father. “Why, my boy, I have been so full of hope that since our last quarrel you had seen the folly of your ways, and were becoming obedient, and willing to take your place in the duties of the world.”
“I have tried,” said Cyril, mournfully.
“You have, I know, my boy,” cried the Rector, “and conquered.”
“Conquered!” said Cyril, tragically. “No, father, I have obeyed you, and kept away from Sage Portlock, but I am more than ever her slave.”
He strode out of the room, leaving the Rector wishing that the Portlocks had never come to Kilby, and that he had never made such a protégée of Sage, ending by going into Mrs Mallow’s room to pour out his plaints in her willing ear.
“What is to be done with the boy?” he said, dolefully. “I will never get into a passion with him again. But what is to be done? He has some plan in view.”
“Let me see him,” said Mrs Mallow. “Give me some latitude, dear, and I will try to bring him to a better way of thinking.”
“Do what you will,” said the unhappy father, “only bring him to his senses. Here have I been almost on my knees to Artingale to get him this post, and now he says that he will not have it.”
“He would take it if we consented to his marrying Sage Portlock.”
“But we can’t, my dear. It is impossible,” cried the Rector.