During the whole of the drive back to Geldham it was old Mr. Reade who talked to me, and not Laurence, who drove along, silent and grave, pulling my cloak affectionately up to my throat every now and then, and watching me as I talked to his father, but scarcely speaking himself at all. When we got to the gate of the Alders, he jumped out, carefully lifted me down, and, telling his father to drive on home, as he should walk the rest of the way, he came inside the gate with me. “Violet,” he said very gravely, “I am afraid I have been foolish in agreeing to my father’s wishes, and I am more anxious about you than I can tell. The Alders is no fit place for you. I can see quite well now what I could not when I was blinded by my passion last night, that you are so good and innocent that evil seems to have no power over you; but yet-- And--and it is just that which makes you so sweet; and I don’t want to spoil it, open your eyes, and all that.” He was playing nervously with my hand, holding it against his breast, and looking into my eyes so miserably, poor fellow! “Look here, Violet!” said he suddenly, as if struck by a happy thought. “If any man, while I am away, tells you you are nice, and tries to make you think he is very fond of you--no matter who it is--Mr. Rayner or--or my father, or any man--don’t take any notice, and don’t believe them.” But poor Laurence was more innocent than I if he thought I did not know what he meant. He was jealous of Mr. Rayner, and I could not persuade him how absurd it was. I said, “Very well, Laurence;” but he was not satisfied. He went on trying to justify himself--not to me--he wanted no justification in my eyes--but to himself. “What could I do, when my old dad offered to do so much for me, but let him have his way? But it was wrong, I know. Our engagement ought to have been open from the first; and his weakness in not daring to face my mother was no worse than mine in giving way to him. And now I am tortured lest my weakness should be visited on you, child; for I cannot even write to you openly, and, if I enclose letters to you to my dear old blundering dad, you will certainly never get them.” “Why not send them to Mrs. Manners, Laurence? Then they would be quite safe. And you don’t mind her knowing, do you? I think she guesses something already,” said I, smiling, remembering how she sent me to the gate to meet him on the previous Friday evening, the very night when he first told me he loved me. He caught at the suggestion eagerly. “That is a capital idea, my darling! I’ll go to her before breakfast to-morrow morning and ask her to look after you as much as she can while I am away. I don’t think she is very fond of my sisters--I wish they were nicer for your sake, my darling, especially Maud. I wish some one would marry her; but no one is such a fool.” “Oh, Laurence, she is your sister!”