. The Squire, in his way, was as great
an interruption to the arguments of the Curate as was poor Louisa in
hers; and Gerald sat patiently to listen to his father's indignant
monologue, broken as it was by Frank's more serious attacks. He was
prepared for all they could say to him, and listened to it, sometimes
with a kind of wondering smile, knowing well how much more strongly,
backed by all his prejudices and interests, he had put the same
arguments to himself. All this time nobody discussed the practicability
of the matter much, nor what steps he meant to take: what immediately
occupied both his father and brother was his determination itself, and
the reasons which had led him to it, which the Squire, like Louisa,
could not understand.

"If I had made myself disagreeable," said Mr Wentworth; "if I had
remonstrated with him, as Leonora urged me to do; if I had put a stop to
the surplice and so forth, and interfered with his decorations or his
saints' days, or anything, it might have been comprehensible. But I
never said a syllable on the subject. I give you my word, I never did.
Why couldn't he have sent down for Louisa now, and dined at the Hall, as
usual, when any of my sons come home? I suppose a man may change his
religion, sir, without getting rid of his natural affections," said the
Squire, gazing out with puzzled looks to watch Gerald going slowly down
the avenue. "A man who talks of leaving his wife, and declines to dine
at his father's house with his brothers and sisters, is a mystery I
can't understand."

"I don't suppose he cares for a lively party like ours at this moment,"
said the Curate: "I don't take it as any sign of a want of affection for
me."

The Squire puffed forth a large sigh of trouble and vexation as he
came from the window. "If _I_ were to give in to trouble when it
appears, what would become of our lively party, I wonder?" he said.
"I'm getting an old man, Frank; but there's not a young man in
Christendom has more need to take care of himself, and preserve his
health, than I have. I am very well, thank God, though I have had a
touch of our Wentworth complaint--just one touch. My father had it ten
years earlier in life, and lived to eighty, all the same; but that is
an age I shall never see. Such worries as I have would kill any man.
I've not spoken to anybody about it," said the Squire, hastily, "but
Jack is going a terrible pace just now. I've had a good deal of bother
about bills and