Arthur reviewed the conversation as he rode, and retained his own opinion. He thought Ovington too apprehensive. He would himself have played a bolder game and cut Wolley and his losses, if losses there must be. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he dismissed the matter and allowed his thoughts to go before him to Garth, to the old man, to his favor, and the path it opened to Josina. Yes, Josina. He was not doing much there, but there was no hurry, and despite the charms of Garth he had not quite made up his mind. When he did, he anticipated no difficulty. Still something was due to her, were it only as a matter of form; and she was pale and sweet and appealing. A little love-making would not be unpleasant these summer evenings, though he had so far held off, haunted by a foolish hankering after Betty: Betty with her sparkle and color, her wit and high spirit, ay, and her very temper, mutinous little rebel as she was—her temper which, manlike, he longed to tame. Ten minutes later saw him in the Squire’s room, entertaining him with scraps of county gossip and the latest news from town. Into the dull room, with its drab hanging and shadowy portraits, where the old man sat by his fireless grate, he came like a gleam of sunshine, his laugh lighting up the dim places, his voice expelling the tedium of the long day. He brought with him the new Quarterly, or the last _Morning Post_. He had news of what Sir Harry had lost at Goodwood, of Mytton’s last scrape, of the poaching affray at my lord’s. He had a joke for Josina and a teasing word for Miss Peacock—who idolized him. And he had tact. He could listen as well as talk. He heard with interest who had called to ask after the Squire, whose landau and outriders had turned on the narrow sweep, and whose curricle; what humbler visitors had left their respects at the stables or the backdoor, and what was Calamy’s last scrap of dolefulness. He was the universal favorite. He had taken the length of the Squire’s foot; it had been an easier matter than he had anticipated. But even in his cup there was a sour drop. He had his occasional misgivings and now and then he suffered a shock. One day it was, “What about your coat, lad?” “My coat?” Arthur stared at the old man. He did not understand. “Ay. You thought that I’d forgotten it. But I’m not that shaken. What about it?” Now, between the darkness of the night and the confusion, Arthur had not noticed the damage done to Clement’s overcoat. Consequently he could make nothing of the Squire’s words and he tried to pass the matter off. “Oh, it’s all right, sir,” he said. He waited for something to enlighten him. “Can you wear it?” “Oh yes.”