"Not Loyd, however; he never kept late
hours, nor had habits of dissipation."

"I don't suppose he ever told you that he
had," said he, laughing. "I conclude that
he has never shown you his diary of town
life."

"But do you tell me, seriously, that he is a
man of dissipated habits?"

"Not more so than eight out of every ten,
perhaps, in his class of life. The student is
everywhere more given to the excitements of
vice than the sportsman. It is the compensation
for the wearisome monotony of brain labour, and
they give themselves up to excesses from which
the healthier nature of a man with country
tastes would revolt at once. But what have I
to do with his habits? I am not his guardian
nor his confessor."

"But they have a very serious interest for
me."

"Then you must look for another counsellor.
I am not so immaculate that I can arraign others;
and, if I were, I fancy I might find some
pleasanter occupation."

"But if I tell you a secret, a great secret—"

"I'd not listen to a secret. I detest secrets,
just as I'd hate to have the charge of another
man's money. So, I warn you, tell me nothing
that you don't want to hear talked of at dinner,
and before the servants."

"Yes; but this is a case in which I really
need your advice."

"You can't have it at the price you propose.
Not to add, that I have a stronger sentiment to
sway me in this case, which you will understand
at once, when I tell you that he is a man of
whom I would like to speak with great reserve,
for the simple reason that I don't like him."

"Don't like him! You don't like him!"

"It does seem very incredible to you; but I
must repeat it, I don't like him."

"But will you tell me why? What are the
grounds of your dislike?"

"Is it not this very moment I have explained
to you that my personal feeling towards him
inspires a degree of deference which forbids me to
discuss his character? He may be the best fellow
in Europe, the bravest, the boldest, the frankest,
the fairest. All I have to say is, that if I had
a sister, and he proposed to marry her, I'd rather
see her a corpse than his wife; and now you
have half led me into a confession that I told
you I'd not enter upon. Say another word
about it, and I'll go and ask Loyd to come up
here and listen to the discussion, for I detest
secrets and secresy, and I'll have nothing to
say to either."

"You'd not do anything so rash and
inconsiderate?"

"Don't provoke me, that's all. You are
always telling me you know the Calverts, their
hot-headedness, their passionate warmth, and
so on. I leave it to yourself, is it wise to push
me further?"

"May I show you a letter I received yesterday
morning, in reply to one of mine?"

"Not if it refers to Loyd."

"It does refer to him."

"Then I'll not read it. I tell you, for the last
time, I'll not be cheated into this discussion.
I don't desire to have it said of me some fine
morning, 'You talked of the man that you lived
with on terms of intimacy. You chummed with
him, and yet you told stories of him.'"

"If you but knew the difficulty of the
position in which you have placed me—"

"I know at least the difficulty in which you
would have placed me, and I am resolved not to
incur it. Have I given you Sophy's letter to
read?" said he, with a changed voice. "I must
fetch it out to you and let you see all that she
says of her future happiness." And thus, by a
sudden turn, he artfully engaged her in recollections
of Rocksley, and all the persons and incidents
of a remote long ago!

When Loyd returned with the girls to the
house, Calvert soon saw that he had not spoken
to them of the altercation of the morning—a
reserve which he ungenerously attributed to the
part Loyd himself filled in the controversy. The
two met with a certain reserve; but which,
however felt and understood by each, was not
easily marked by a spectator. Florence, however,
saw it, with the traditional clearness
of an invalid. She read what healthier eyes
never detect. She saw that the men had
either quarrelled, or were on the brink of a
quarrel, and she watched them closely and
narrowly. This was the easier for her, as at meal
times she never came to table, but lay on a
sofa, and joined in the conversation at
intervals.

Oppressed by the consciousness of what had
occurred in the morning, and far less able to
conceal his emotions or master them than his
companion, Loyd was disconcerted and ill at
ease; now answering at cross-purposes, now
totally absorbed in his own reflections. As
Calvert saw this, it encouraged him to greater
efforts to be agreeable. He could, when he
pleased, be a most pleasing guest. He had that
sort of knowledge of people and life which
seasons talk so well, and suits so many listeners.
He was curious to find out to which of the
sisters Loyd was engaged, but all his shrewdness
could not fix the point decisively. He talked on
incessantly, referring occasionally to Loyd to
confirm what he knew well the other's experience
could never have embraced, and asking frankly,
as it were, for his opinion on people he was fully
aware the other had never met with.

Emily (or Milly, as she was familiarly called)
Walter showed impatience more than once at
these sallies, which always made Loyd
confused and uncomfortable, so that Calvert leaned
to the impression that it was she herself was
the chosen one. As for Florence, she rather
enjoyed, he thought, the awkward figure Loyd
presented, and she even laughed outright at his
bashful embarrassment.

"Yes," said Culvert to himself, " Florence is
with me. She is my ally. I'm sure of her."

"What spirits he has," said Miss Grainger, as
she brought the sick girl her coffee. "I never