“I do, and very happily,” said Bayle, laughing. “Shall we go to your private room at the bank?”
“Bless my soul! no, man!” cried Sir Gordon hastily. “The very last place. Let’s get out in the fields, and talk there. More room, and no tattling, inquisitive people about. No Gemps.”
“Very good,” said Bayle, wondering, and very anxious at heart, for he knew the baronet’s proclivities.
They turned off on to one of the footpaths, chatting upon indifferent matters, till all at once Sir Gordon exclaimed:
“’Pon my honour, I don’t think I like you, Bayle.”
“I’m very sorry, Sir Gordon, because I really do like you. I’ve always found you a true gentleman at heart, and—”
“Stuff, sir! Silence, sir! Egad, sir, will you hold your tongue? Talking such nonsense to a confirmed valetudinarian with a soured life, and—pish! I don’t want to talk about myself. I was going to say that I did not like you.”
“You did say so,” replied the curate, smiling.
“Ah! well, it’s the truth. Why do you stop here?”
“To annoy you, perhaps,” said Bayle laughing. “Well, no: I like my people, and I’m vain enough to think I am able to do a little good.”