I don't want any victuals, so don't wait dinner for me.
Nicholas was the wrong kind of man to be blind to his Christine's mortification, though he did not know its entire cause.

He had lately foreseen something of this sort as possible.
'It serves me right,' he thought, as he trotted homeward.

'It was absurd--wicked of me to lead her on so.

The sacrifice would have been too great--too cruel!' And yet, though he thus took her part, he flushed with indignation every time he said to himself, 'She is ashamed of me!' On the ridge which overlooked Froom-Everard he met a neighbour of his--a stock-dealer--in his gig, and they drew rein and exchanged a few words.

A part of the dealer's conversation had much meaning for Nicholas.
'I've had occasion to call on Squire Everard,' the former said; 'but he couldn't see me on account of being quite knocked up at some bad news he has heard.' Nicholas rode on past Froom-Everard to Elsenford Farm, pondering.