“I will,” acquiesced Nash.
Perhaps that was easier said than done. It happened that the same evening I overheard a few words between the lawyer and Nash. They were not obliged to apply to Miss Nave: but, the chances were that they did.
The Squire sent me to Nave’s when dinner was over, to take a note to Nash. Nave’s smart waiting-maid, in a muslin apron and cherry cap-strings, was standing at the door talking and laughing with some young man, under cover of the twilight. She was as fond of finery as her mistress; perhaps as fond of sweethearts.
“Mr. Caromel? Yes, sir, he is at home. Please to walk in.”
Showing me to a sitting-room on the left of the passage—the lawyer’s offices were on the right—she shut me in, and went, as I supposed, to tell Caromel. At the back of this room was the dining-room. I heard the rattle of glasses on the table through the unlatched folding-doors, and, next, the buzz of voices. The lawyer and Nash were sitting over their wine.
“You must marry her,” said Nave, concisely.
“I wish I could,” returned Nash; and his wavering, irresolute tone was just a contrast to the other’s keen one. “I want to. But how can I? I’m heartily sorry.”
“And as soon as may be. You must. Attentions paid to young ladies cannot be allowed to end in smoke. And you will find her thousand pounds useful.”
“But how can I, I say?” cried Nash ruefully. “You know how impracticable it is—the impediment that exists.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Caromel! Where there’s a will there’s a way. Impediments only exist to be got over.”