“You don’t seem very well, George.  I am afraid that your travels have not agreed with you.”

“My dear Philip,” answered his cousin, in a languid and affected voice, “if you had lived the life that I have for the last twenty years, you would look a little knocked up.  I have had some very good times; but the fact is, that I have been too prodigal of my strength, not thought enough about the future.  It is a great mistake, and one of the worst results is that I am utterly blase of everything; even la belle passion is played out for me.  I haven’t seen a woman I care twopence about for ten years.”

“Ah! you should sell this place, and take a house in town; it would suit you much better.”

“I can do that without selling the place.  I don’t intend to sell the place—­in fact, nothing would induce me to do so.  Some day I may marry, and want to transmit it to some future Caresfoot; but I confess I don’t mean to do that just yet.  Marry when you want a nurse, but never before; that’s my maxim.  Marriage is an excellent institution for parsons and fools, the two classes that Providence has created to populate the world; but a wise man should as soon think of walking into a spring-trap.  Take your own case, for instance, my dear Philip; look what marriage led to.”

“At any rate,” answered his cousin, bitterly, “it led to your advantage.”

“Exactly; and that is one of the reasons why I have such a respect for the institution in the abstract.  It has been my personal benefactor, and I worship it accordingly—­at a distance.  By the way, talking of marriage reminds me of its legitimate fruits.  Bellamy tells me that your daughter Angela (if I had a daughter, I should call her Diabola, it is more appropriate for a woman) has grown uncommonly handsome.  Bring her to see me; I adore beauty in all its forms, especially its female form.  Is she really so handsome?”

“I am no judge, but you will soon have an opportunity of forming an opinion—­that is, I hope so.  I propose coming with Angela to make a formal call on you to-morrow.”

“Good.  Tell my fair cousin that I shall be certain to be in, and be prepared, metaphorically, to fall at the feet of so much loveliness.  By the way, that reminds me; you have heard of Bellamy’s, or rather Mrs. Bellamy’s, good fortune, I suppose?”

“No.”

“What—­not?  Why, he is now Sir John Bellamy, knight.”

“Indeed!  How is that?”

“You remember the bye-election six months back?”

“Oh, yes!  I was actually badgered by Mrs. Bellamy into promising to vote, much against my personal convenience.”