"Sober or drunk, lad, I fear you," he said, quietly.
"Then you're a fool for your pains. Haven't I eyes in my head, old chap? Didn't I watch you two the other night, and see the hide-and-seek in her eyes, and hear her cut you to ribbons with her little red tongue?"
"What of that? I don't see that it helps me."
"No, of course you don't see, because you know as much of women as you did the day you were born. It means just this—you can go in and win her. Only you won't; you're so damnably humble in the wrong places, and cock-a-whoop when soberness would fit you better."
"Do you mean that, Griff? Do you think—nay, nay, it's too good; it can't be. She as much as tells me I'm a canting fool—and sometimes she almost makes me believe it," he added reflectively.
"Do you good. What an ass you are, old fellow, somehow."
The preacher bit his lip, and seemed minded to retort; but he thought better of it, and struck off into a fresh channel of talk.
"There are changes in the countryside," he ventured presently. "The old mill is taken, Frender's Folly is taken, and now Wynyates——"
"Frender's Folly let?" echoed Griff. "I thought it was past hope by this time. Who has taken it?"