“If she refuses, she refuses!” he thought. “I shan’t press her. I’ll just have to tell them the thing’s off.”

He had just reached the point, close to the marketplace, where Preston Lane debouched from the High Street, when he encountered, without any warning of his approach, for the pavement was crowded, the lean Panurge-like figure of Bob Weevil, hurrying along in a new straw-hat and new flannel trousers.

“Hullo!” said the young grocer, with a shrinking, startled movement; and then he gave a furtive glance around him, as if to ensure public protection from a possible outburst of physical violence.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Bob?” said Wolf. “Where are you going so fast?”

Mr. Weevil stopped and gazed at him with screwed-up eyelids, as he shook him by the hand.