Mr. Drayton, while he covered his deepest plans with a jovial laugh that threw every one off their guard, had told him he must have something in writing--not, of course, to show any one, "but as a satisfaction to myself," he said. Mr. Sandford fought against this point, in vain. "I do not believe you are in earnest," Mr. Drayton had said. "I will do nothing for nothing. If you intend to help me as you have promised, why make such a fuss about it?" "I can only say I will do all I can." "Then put that in writing." And Mr. Drayton, with another laugh, wrote out that he (Mr. Sandford) would not leave a stone unturned, but would manage to induce Margaret to marry Mr. Drayton. When Mr. Sandford had signed it, a strong misgiving crossed his mind. Mr. Drayton's eyes had that look in them that Margaret had noticed; and he felt that remorse, that shrinking from the consequences of his action, that all men, not wholly bad, feel when they act unworthily. As he sat in the smoking-carriage alone he was conscious of this pang about Margaret, and he was glad to see a total stranger, evidently not an Englishman, get into the carriage. Anxious to avoid his own thoughts, he broke silence, taking advantage of a turn on their way that opened up an enchanting scene on either side. Waving his hand towards the window, he said, with that air of proprietorship noticeable in some Scotchmen-- "A fine view, sir, a very fine view." "For God's sake, sir!" exclaimed his fellow-traveller, with a very strong American accent, "do not talk to me of the view. I have a wife and two daughters in another compartment, and I had to come away from them, I am so dead sick of the way they go on about the view. Why upon arth don't you level it all, and grow grain?" Mr. Sandford was so taken aback at the man's sentiments that he made no further effort in his direction. He also felt the depression hanging about the air at Renton; but he had placed himself in a position from which he could not escape. He had a few days before him still; then, before Mr. Drayton appeared, he had to say something, and he had to say it in earnest, to Margaret. It was strange, he thought, that he hated vexing or wounding her in any way. Had she been like Grace, what would it have mattered? But the soft pleading eyes, that look of quiet self-possession, which was so like _her_. He hated by anticipation the look of horror he had seen formerly in her face when Mr. Drayton was in question. He dreaded the coming passage between them, as he seemed never to have dreaded anything before.