“You speak very feelingly,” said Henry, “and no doubt there is a great deal of truth in what you say. I had two messmates who made _mésalliances,_ and certainly it didn’t answer with them, for they have both gone to the dogs—indeed, one poor fellow committed suicide. However, it is very difficult to argue on such matters, and still more difficult to take warning from the fate of others, since the circumstances are never similar. But I promise you this, Levinger, that I will do nothing in a hurry—for two or three months, indeed—and that I will take no step in the matter without informing you fully of my intentions, for I think that this is due to you. Meanwhile, if you are good enough to allow me to remain upon friendly terms with your daughter and yourself, I shall be glad, though I am sure I do not know how she will receive me. Within a few months I shall finally have decided upon my course of action, and if I then come to the conclusion that I am not bound in honour elsewhere, perhaps I may ask you to allow me to try my fortune with Miss Levinger, unworthy of her as I am and always shall be.” “I can find no fault with that arrangement, Graves. You have set out your mind like an honest man, and I respect you for it. It will make me the more anxious to learn, when the three months are up, that you have decided to forget all this folly and to begin afresh. Now I have something to ask you: it is that, so soon as you can get about again, you will pay us the visit which was so unfortunately postponed. Please understand I do not mean that I wish you to make advances to my daughter, but I should like you to grow to know each other better in an ordinary and friendly fashion. Will you come?” Henry reflected, and answered, “Thank you, yes, I will.” At this moment the door was opened, and the butler, Thomson, announced that lunch was ready, adding, “Shall I wheel you in, Sir Henry? Her ladyship bids me say she hopes that you will come.” “Yes, I suppose so,” he answered. “Here, give me a hand into the chair.” In another minute they were advancing in solemn procession across the hall, Mr. Levinger walking first, leaning on his stick, and Henry following after in the invalid chair propelled by Thomson. So agitated was he at the thought of meeting Emma, and by a secret fear, born of a guilty conscience that she would know that he and her father had been employing the last hour in discussing her, that he forgot to guide the chair properly, and despite Thomson’s warning, “To the right, Sir Henry,” he contrived to strike the jamb of the door so sharply that he must have over-turned had not Emma, who was standing close by, sprung forward and seized the wheel. In one way this accident was fortunate, for it lessened the awkwardness of their meeting. Henry apologised and she laughed; and presently they were seated side by side at table, discussing the eccentricities of invalid chairs with somewhat unnecessary persistence and fervour.