“Perhaps he may find something between a princess and a cookmaid.”

“I hope, for your sake, he may not—­neither a princess nor a cookmaid, nor anything between.”

“He has my leave to marry to-morrow, Lady Ongar.  If I had my wish, Hugh should have his house full of children.”

“Of course that is the proper thing to say, Harry.”

“I won’t stand that from you, Lady Ongar.  What I say, I mean; and no one knows that better than you.”

“Won’t you, Harry?  From whom, then, if not from me?  But come, I will do you justice, and believe you to be simple enough to wish anything of the kind.  The sort of castle in the air which you build, is not to be had by inheritance, but to be taken by storm.  You must fight for it.”

“Or work for it.”

“Or win it in some way off your own bat; and no lord ever sat prouder in his castle than you sit in those that you build from day to day in your imagination.  And you sally forth and do all manner of magnificent deeds.  You help distressed damsels—­poor me, for instance; and you attack enormous dragons—­shall I say that Sophie Gordeloup is the latest dragon?—­and you wish well to your enemies, such as Hugh and Archie; and you cut down enormous forests, which means your coming miracles as an engineer—­and then you fall gloriously in love.  When is that last to be, Harry?”

“I suppose, according to all precedent, that must be done with the distressed damsel,” he said—­fool that he was.

“No, Harry, no; you shall take your young, fresh, generous heart to a better market than that; not but that the distressed damsel will ever remember what might once have been.”

He knew that he was playing on the edge of a precipice—­that he was fluttering as a moth round a candle.  He knew that it behooved him now at once to tell her all his tale as to Stratton and Florence Burton—­that if he could tell it now, the pang would be over and the danger gone.  But he did not tell it.  Instead of telling it he thought of Lady Ongar’s beauty, of his own early love, of what might have been his had he not gone to Stratton.  I think he thought, if not of her wealth, yet of the power and place which would have been his were it now open to him to ask her for her hand.  When he had declared that he did not want his cousin’s inheritance, he had spoken the simple truth.  He was not covetous of another’s money.  Were Archie to marry as many wives as Henry, and have as many children as Priam, it would be no offence to him.  His desires did not lie in that line.  But in this other case, the woman before him who would so willingly have endowed him with all she possessed, had been loved by him before he had ever seen Florence Burton.  In all his love for Florence—­so he now told himself, but so told himself falsely—­he had ever remembered that Julia Brabazon had been his first love, the love whom he had loved with all his heart.  But things had gone with him most unfortunately—­with a misfortune that had never been paralleled.  It was thus he was thinking instead of remembering that now was the time in which his tale should be told.