“Quite the contrary.  Have you never perceived the method of his visions in an unvarying opposition to those antecedents you boast of?”

“Well, well, well?”

“Money, Family, Influence,—­are a ding-dong bell which you must weary of, Mr. Somers—­sometimes.”

“Ben has disappointed me; I must confess that.”

“My sister is eccentric.  Provided she marries him, the family programme will be changed.  You must lop him from the family tree.”

He took up a paper, bowed to me with an unvexed air, and read a column or so.

“It may be absurd,” and he looked over his spectacle tops, as if he had found the remark in his paper, “for parents to oppose the marriages their children choose to make, and I beg you to understand that I may oppose, not resist Ben.  You know very well,” and he dropped the paper in a burst of irritation and candor, “that the devil will be to pay with Mrs. Somers, who has a right of dictation in the affair.  She does not suspect it.  I must say that Ben is mistaking himself again.  I mean, I think so.”

I looked upon him with a more friendly countenance.  The one rude word he had spoken had a wonderful effect, after the surprise of it was over.  Real eyes appeared in his face, and a truthful accent pervaded his voice.  I think he was beginning to think that he might confide his perplexities to me on other subjects, when Ben returned.  As it was, a friendly feeling had been established between us.  He said in a confidential tone to Ben, as if we were partners in some guilty secret, “You must mention it to your mother; indeed you must.”

“You have been speaking with Cassandra, in reference to her sister,” he answered indifferently.  Mr. Somers was chilled in his attempt at a mutual confidence.

“Can you raise money, if Desmond should marry?” asked Ben.  “Enough for both of us?”

“Desmond? he will never marry.”

“It is certainly possible.”

“You know how I am clogged.”

I rang for some ice-water, and when the waiter brought it, said that it was time to retire.

“Now,” said Mr. Somers, “I shall give you just such a breakfast as will enable you to travel well—­a beefsteak, and old bread made into toast.  Don’t drink that ice-water; take some wine.”

I set the glass of ice-water down, and declined the wine.  Ben elevated his eyebrows, and asked: 

“What time shall I get up, sir?”

“I will call you; so you may sleep untroubled.”

He opened the door, and bade me an affectionate good night.

“The coach is ready,” a waiter announced, as we finished our breakfast.  “We are ready,” said Mr. Somers.  “I have ordered a packet of sandwiches for you—­beef, not ham sandwiches—­and here is a flask of wine mixed with water.”

I thanked him, and tied my bonnet.

“Here is a note, also,” opening his pocketbook and extracting it, “for your father.  It contains our apologies for not accompanying you, and one or two allusions,” making an attempt to wink at Ben, which failed, his eyes being unused to such an undignified style of humor.