‘Perhaps--I don’t know--unless he has already made ducks and drakes of it,’ replied Henry Hindes, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. ‘But Jenny has never thought of him seriously, I am sure of it! Her father was telling me only yesterday, that her demeanour has not changed in the least since he told her she must give him up, but is as cheerful and lively as usual. That doesn’t look as if she was very miserable over the loss, eh, Hannah?’ ‘Perhaps she does not believe she shall lose him,’ observed his wife. ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Nothing particular, only Jenny may derive comfort from looking forward to the time when she will be of age and able to please herself. It seems unnatural to me that they should give each other up so cheerfully, and it is not Jenny’s disposition either. You seem to forget what a self-willed little mortal she is! And Mr Walcheren is so good-looking too. I am sure Jenny has positively raved to me about his beauty. And where will he find such another girl? I thought she looked more like an angel than a woman at the Bouchers’ on Wednesday. So pure and sweet and fresh in that white dress, and with those lovely eyes of hers shining like two stars. Don’t you think she has the very loveliest eyes in the world, Hal?’ ‘Yes! yes! very pretty, certainly; but handsome is as handsome does, Hannah, and I should be dreadfully grieved if I thought Jenny could be capable of wilfully deceiving her parents. It would break their hearts. If you fancy she may be (and you women know best about each other as a rule), tell me so, and I will warn the Cramptons. It will be my duty to do so, for they are the oldest friends I possess.’ Mrs Hindes was just about to answer her husband’s query, when they were both startled by the appearance of Mr Crampton coming up the drive towards them. There was evidently something unusual about his visit. In the first place, the old man was walking, a most unheard of exertion on his part, and, in the second, he would, in the ordinary course of events, have met his partner in a few minutes in the train, as this was Saturday, when they made a point of going to the City together, in order to pay the workmen’s wages, and set things generally right for the ensuing week. ‘My dear Crampton! what on earth is the matter?’ cried Henry Hindes, putting down his child, and hastening to his partner. Mr Crampton’s face, which was always of a fine roseate hue, was now positively purple, and, from fast walking and agitation, he found it impossible to articulate. Hannah feared he was going to have a fit, and urged her husband to get him to the house before he attempted to tell them what was amiss. Even when he was placed in a library chair, it was some minutes before he could find breath to speak, and, meanwhile, the distress pictured on his features was unmistakable.