‘Then I shall write this week, and appoint a day for you and Mr. Somerville to dine at Latheby–if you can come, father.’
‘I shall no doubt be able to come,’ replied Somerville.
Mrs. Latheby waited in the parlour to have an interview with his Eminence. Somerville walked with Wellfield along the lane towards his home. Wellfield told him what had happened.
‘I am superstitious, I suppose, according to your notions,’ said Somerville, ‘and I call it a sign.’
‘I do not call it superstition,’ stammered Wellfield. ‘I have myself been thinking to-day that–that—’
‘That you ought to follow my advice, and ask for Miss Bolton’s hand,’ was the firm, decided reply.
‘If it were not for this miserable business in the background——’
‘It is your duty to tell the truth to one lady, or to get some one to do it for you,’ said Somerville, in a smooth, even voice, which yet cut his hearer like a whip. He winced.
‘If you mean to stay here, you ought at least in duty and honour either to propose to Miss Bolton, or to tell her that you are bound to another woman.’
‘Do you suppose I don’t know that?’ retorted Wellfield, almost fiercely. ‘Have I not been debating within myself until I am almost mad, how to tell her.’