"What I have to say, Sir Booth, affects you, it interests you very nearly," answered Cleve.
"But, sir, I am going out in that boat—I wish to smoke my cigar—I've come down here to live to myself, and to be alone when I choose it," said Sir Booth, with suppressed exasperation.
"One word, I beg—you'll not regret it, Sir Booth," pleaded Cleve.
"Well, sir, come—I will hear it; but I tell you beforehand, I have pretty strong views as to how I have been used, and it is not likely to lead to much," said Sir Booth, with one of those sudden changes of purpose to which fiery men are liable.
So, as briefly and as persuasively as he could, Cleve Verney disclosed his own feelings, giving to the date of his attachment, skilfully, a retrospective character, and guarding the ladies of Malory from the unreasonable temper of this violent old man; and, in fact, from Cleve's statement you would have gathered that he was not even conscious that the ladies were now residing at Malory. He closed his little confession with a formal proposal.
Was there something—ever so little—in the tone of this latter part of his brief speech, that reflected something of the confidence to which I have alluded, and stung the angry pride of this ruined man? He kept smoking his cigar a little faster, and looked steadily at the distant boat that was slowly approaching against the tide.
When Cleve concluded, the old man lowered his cigar and laughed shortly and scornfully.
"You do us a great deal of honour, Mr. Verney—too much honour, by—," scoffed the Baronet.
"Be so good at all events as to answer me this one question frankly—yes or no. Is your uncle, Kiffyn Verney, aware of your speaking to me on this subject?"
"No, Sir Booth, he is not," said Cleve; "he knows nothing of it. I ought, perhaps, to have mentioned that at first."