“Brimberly,” said Young R., turning to stare in lazy wonder, “where in the world are you getting to now?”

Mr. Brimberly coughed and touched a whisker with dubious finger.

“Wasn’t you allooding to—­hem!—­to matrimony, sir?”

“Matrimony!  Lord, no!  Hardly so desperate a course as that, Brimberly.  I was considering the advisability of—­er—­this!” And opening a drawer in the escritoire, Young R. held up a revolver, whereat Mr. Brimberly’s whiskers showed immediate signs of extreme agitation, and he started to his feet.

“Mr. Ravenslee, sir—­for the love o’ Gawd!” he exclaimed, “if it’s a choice between the two—­try matrimony first, it’s so much—­so much wholesomer, sir!”

“Is it, Brimberly?  Let me see, there are about five hundred highly dignified matrons in this—­er—­great city, wholly eager and anxious to wed their daughters to my dollars (and incidentally myself) even if I were the vilest knave or most pitiful piece of doddering antiquity—­faugh!  Let’s hear no more of matrimony.”

“Certingly not, sir!” bowed Mr. Brimberly.

“And I’m neither mad, Brimberly, nor drunk, only—­speaking colloquially—­I’m ‘on to’ myself at last.  If my father had only left me fewer millions, I might have been quite a hard-working, useful member of society, for there’s good in me, Brimberly.  I am occasionally aware of quite noble impulses, but they need some object to bring ’em out.  An object—­hum!” Here Mr. Ravenslee put away the revolver.  “An object to work for, live for, be worthy of!” Here he fell to frowning into the fire again and stared thus so long that at last Mr. Brimberly felt impelled to say: 

“A hobject, of course, sir!  A hobject—­certingly, sir!” But here he started and turned to stare toward the windows as from the darkness beyond two voices were uplifted in song; two voices these which sang the same tune and words but in two different keys, uncertain voices, now shooting up into heights, now dropping into unplumbable deeps, two shaky voices whose inconsequent quaverings suggested four legs in much the same condition.

“Brimberly,” sighed his master, “what doleful wretches have we here?”

“Why, sir, I—­I rather fancy it’s William and James—­the footmen, sir,” answered Mr. Brimberly between bristling whiskers.  “Hexcuse me, sir—­I’ll go and speak to ’em, sir—­”

“Oh, pray don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Brimberly; sit down and hearken!  These sad sounds are inspired by deep potations—­beer, I fancy.  Be seated, Mr. Brimberly.”

Mr. Brimberly obeyed, and being much agitated dropped his cigar and grovelled for it, and it was to be noted thereafter that as the singers drew nearer, he shuffled on his chair with whiskers violently a-twitch, while his eyes goggled more and his domelike brow grew ever moister.  But on came the singing footmen and passed full-tongued, wailing out each word with due effect, thus: 

“—­my sweet ’eart’s—­me mother The best—­the dearest—­of—­’em all.”