"Now, Mr. Grierson, is there anywhere we can talk. I have a few questions of a rather serious nature, of a distinctly serious nature, I might say, to ask you."
Jimmy, now fully convinced that his theory of trouble ahead was right, pulled himself together to meet it. The Canon's manner had already aroused his antagonism, and he was in no mood to submit tamely.
"We can talk in there, if you like," he answered, nodding towards the refreshment-room. "I see the waiting-rooms are occupied."
The Canon frowned, thinking he detected a hint of flippancy in the younger man's manner. "I said it was a serious matter," he replied, severely, "and a public bar is hardly the place for discussion, hardly the place I should be likely to visit in any case." He glanced along the platform, which was already deserted. "I think we will walk up that direction, if you please."
Jimmy, now thoroughly nettled, took out his case and lighted a cigarette with rather ostentatious coolness, waiting for the other to begin.
At last when they got to the open end of the platform, Canon Farlow cleared his voice with a little cough which he had often found most effective on solemn occasions. "I understand from your letter that you have proposed marriage to my daughter, Vera."
Jimmy corrected him quietly. "I am engaged to Miss Farlow. I am sorry if I didn't make that quite clear to you."
If men in his position did such things, the Canon would have snorted; as it was, however, he remembered his dignity in time. "Pardon me, Mr. Grierson, my daughter knows better than to accept a proposal of marriage from any man without my permission. Anything she may have said was provisional, simply provisional, until I, myself, had made inquiries. I regret to say now that what I have learnt about you is greatly to your discredit, terribly so. I have had a letter from your sister, Mrs. Fenton."
Jimmy was pale already, and he went, if possible, a shade paler, with anger; but he spoke very calmly. "Yes, and what does Ida say about me? Something pleasant, surely."