"You don't want to tell me, Dixie."
"There is nothing I should not be most happy to tell my distinguished pupil. I've been always frank, quite frank with you, Mr. Verney. I've never had a secret."
Cleve laughed gently.
"You wrong me if you think I have," and the Rector of Clay dropped his eyes and coloured a little and coughed. "But this is not mine—and there really is a difficulty."
"Insuperable?"
"Well, really, I'm afraid that term expresses it but too truly," acquiesced the clergyman.
"What a bore!" exclaimed Cleve.
"Shut the window, if it isn't too much trouble, like a dear old Dixie—a thousand thanks."
"I assure you I would not say it," resumed the Rector of Clay, "if it were not so—and I hope I'm in the habit of speaking truth—and this secret, if so trifling a thing may be seriously so termed, is not mine, and therefore not at my disposal."
"Something in that, old Dixie. Have a weed?" he added, tendering his cigars.