He did not expatiate upon the subject. Jerome, engrossed by his real love, had absolutely not once thought of Miss Bolton in the light in which she was now held up to him. She was very rich. Some time she would be the mistress of Wellfield Abbey. He rather liked her, in a superior, patronising kind of way, but otherwise she was utterly indifferent to him; whereas every fibre of his heart was powerfully drawn in another direction. ‘Impossible, Father! The circumstances make it out of the question,’ said he, coldly and decisively. ‘The course is clear,’ said the priest, calmly. ‘Miss Bolton is not engaged. She is anything but disagreeable or stupid. Considering her training, she is a marvel of refinement; and if you married her you could make her into what you pleased. You have no rivals, and if you had, none here who could for a moment compete with yourself.’ ‘Pardon me; I know nothing of Miss Bolton’s feelings, of course, but unless I am much mistaken I have—should have, I mean—a rival in her cousin, John Leyburn, as good a fellow as ever breathed.’ Father Somerville laughed—laughed as a man laughs who has heard a jest full of a quaint conceit which delights him. He had a musical laugh, and there was nothing offensive in his manner. ‘A good fellow enough, and liberal minded. I have encountered him once or twice on local business. But a girl like Miss Bolton wants something more than a good fellow for a husband—something different, at least. She lives alone, reads novels and poetry, has known Mr. Leyburn all her life, while you—bah! my dear sir, the idea of a rivalry is absurd.’ ‘Your imagination is vivid. I say again, it is out of the question. No. Wellfield is gone from me, and I must abide without it as best I may.’ (‘A woman in the case, assuredly,’ thought the priest, ‘or he would never hesitate. No Wellfield ever did hesitate at so easy a means of making himself at ease again. It was honest work that always made that race kick and plunge.’) Before he could speak aloud the gate had been opened, and Nita, accompanied by Speedwell, her mastiff, entered the garden. ‘We must drop that topic,’ murmured Somerville with a slight smile, as he bowed low to the girl, who returned the salutation very slightly, saying with marked coolness of manner to Jerome: ‘You are engaged, Mr. Wellfield. I am intruding, and will come another time.’ ‘By no means,’ said Somerville, quickly. ‘I must go—I was on the point of taking leave.’ ‘But I shall see you again,’ said Jerome. ‘Certainly, and often, if I consult my own inclination,’ said Somerville, with his strange, sweet smile. ‘Call at Brentwood, and ask for me at any hour after vespers, and I shall receive you with pleasure.’ Nita, followed by her dog, had walked into the house while these farewell amenities were taking place. ‘Will you not come to-morrow?’ added Father Somerville. ‘Thank you. I shall be glad to do so.’ ‘That is well. Then, _auf Wiedersehen_!’