Drake, with all his freedom from pride and side, was fully sensible of
the altitude of his position, and he knew the world looked to him for an
heir to Angleford.

Yes, he would have to marry, and as he had lost Nell, why, not marry
Luce? He had an idea that she cared for him, as much as she cared for
any other than herself, and he knew that she would fill the place as
well as, if not better than, another.

Their names had been coupled together. Society expected the match. Why
should he not ask her to renew the engagement, and ask her at once? The
house would be comparatively empty, for most of the guests would not
return until dinner time, and he would have the opportunity of making
his proposal.

He stopped dead short, half resolved to obey the impulse; then, after
the manner of men, he walked on again, and away from Anglemere, and,
instead of returning to the house in time for lunch, found himself at
one of the outlying farms.

It is needless to say that he was accorded a hearty welcome. They did
not fuss over him; the Anglemere tenants were prosperous and
self-respecting; and though they regarded their lord and master as a
kind of sovereign, and felt greatly honored by his presence under their
roof, there was nothing servile in their attentions.

Drake sat down to the midday meal with a ruddy-cheeked child on each
side of him, and chatted with the farmer and his wife, the farmer eating
his well-earned dinner with his usual appetite, the latter waiting on
them with assiduity and perfect composure. Now and again Drake made a
joke for the sake of the children, who laughed up at him with round eyes
and open mouths; he discussed the breeding and price of poultry, the
rival merits of the new churns and "separators" with the dame, and the
prospects of the coming harvest with the good man. For a wonder the
farmer did not grumble. The Anglefords were good landlords; there was no
rack-renting, no ejections, and a farm falling vacant from natural
causes was always eagerly tendered for.