“Struck, eh?” said the old general when the two gentlemen were alone after dinner.  “Has she wounded you, eh?  Gad, sir! that woman has eight thousand pounds a year in the India Four per Cents.  Would you believe it?  Would you believe that any man could have been such a fool as to put such a fortune into India Four per Cents.?—­with mortgages going a-begging at six, and the marine insurance companies paying thirteen!  Well, my boy, what do you think of her?  She was most uncommonly attentive to you, that I’ll swear:  don’t deny it—­now, don’t deny it.  Bless my soul! you marrying men are so sly there is no getting at you.  Well, what was I saying?  Yes, yes—­will she do?  Eight thousand a year, as I’m a living sinner!”

Mr. Roscorla was intensely flattered to have it even supposed that the refusal of such a fortune was within his power.

“Well,” said he, modestly and yet critically, “she’s not quite my style.  I’m rather afraid of three-deckers.  But she seems a very good-natured sort of woman.”

“Good-natured!  Is that all you say?  I can tell you, in my time men were nothing so particular when there were eight thousand a year going a-begging.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Roscorla with a smile, “it is a very good joke.  When she marries, she’ll marry a younger man than I am.”

“Don’t you be mistaken—­don’t you be mistaken!” the old general cried.  “You’ve made an impression—­I’ll swear you have; and I told her ladyship you would.”

“And what did Lady Weekes say?”

“Gad, sir! she said it would be a deuced good thing for both of you.”

“She is very kind,” said Mr. Roscorla, pleased at the notion of having such a prize within reach, and yet not pleased that Lady Weekes should have fancied this the sort of woman he would care to marry.

They went to Brighton, and a very pleasant time of it they had at the big noisy hotel.  The weather was delightful.  Mrs. Seton-Willoughby was excessively fond of riding:  forenoon and afternoon they had their excursions, with the pleasant little dinner of the evening to follow.  Was not this a charmed land into which the former hermit of Basset Cottage was straying?  Of course, he never dreamed for a moment of marrying this widow:  that was out of the question.  She was just a little too demonstrative—­very clever and amusing for half an hour or so, but too gigantic a blessing to be taken through life.  It was the mere possibility of marrying her, however, which attracted Mr. Roscorla.  He honestly believed, judging by her kindness to him, that if he seriously tried he could get her to marry him—­in other words, that he might become possessed of eight thousand pounds a year.  This money, so to speak, was within his reach; and it was only now that he was beginning to see that money could purchase many pleasures even for the middle-aged.  He made a great mistake in imagining, down in Cornwall, that he had lived his life, and that he had but to look forward to mild enjoyments, a peaceful wandering onward to the grave, and the continual study of economy in domestic affairs.  He was only now beginning to live.