"Yes, but don't you see, everything is at cross-purposes. Old Treherne, down here, has a daughter several years older than I am. You have heard of Treherne, haven't you? He is the Squire."
"Yes, I have heard of Mr. Treherne."
"His daughter is on the shelf—has been for several years. He is as poor as a church mouse, is the Squire; but then, he is one of the big people in the county, and the pater has an idea that if I were to marry her ... well, you can see, can't you?"
"The lady might not be willing," I suggested.
"Quite possible, of course; but the pater seems sure she would be. You see, she's thirty, if she's a day, and as ugly as they make 'em, and the pater wants me to sell my soul and marry her. By so doing, old Treherne would be able to pay off the mortgages on the estate, and I, in time, would become the Squire. Just think of it!"
"I thought he wanted you to read for the Bar?" I interposed.
"Yes, he does, but that is only one of his many schemes. He wants me to marry Treherne's daughter. Celia, they call her—Celia Treherne. Good, isn't it?"
"Why, isn't she an estimable lady?"
"Estimable! Estimable enough. But, as I told you just now, I am in love with a farmer's daughter, one of the class my family really belongs to, and the pater—well, I need scarcely tell you what he says."
"And this farmer's daughter's name?" I queried.