“Father,” he said at length, for he didn’t mind lying the least in the world—­“Father, I heard a strange report about you this morning.”

“Indeed!  What was it?  That I had failed in business, or quadrupled my fortune?” inquired the egotist, who was always interested when the question concerned himself.

“Neither, sir.  I heard you were going to be married.”

“Fabian!” sternly exclaimed the Iron King, darkly gathering his brows.

“Yes, sir,” said the benevolent Mr. Fabian, who, now that the ice was broken, could go on lying glibly with the best intentions and without the slightest scruple; “yes, sir; you know such rumors must necessarily get afloat about such a fine-looking, marriageable man as yourself.”

“Ah! and since the community have made so free, pray what lady’s name have they honored me by associating with mine?” inquired the Iron King somewhat sarcastically, yet not ill-pleased to learn that he was still to be considered a great prize in the matrimonial market.

“Why, of course there could be but one lady in the question; and equally, of course, you will be able to place her,” said Mr. Fabian, smiling.

“Upon my soul, I am not.”

“Well, then, the lady to whom you are reported to be engaged is the beautiful Mrs. Bloomingfield.”

“Who?”

“The beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Bloomingfield, with whom you sat and talked during the whole evening of the governor’s State dinner party.”

“Oh, the widow of General Bloomingfield, who died three years ago.  Yes, I remember her—­a very fine creature, most certainly—­but I never dreamed of her in the light of a wife.  In fact, I never dreamed of marrying again,” said the Iron King, speaking with unusual gentleness.

Mr. Fabian laughed in his sleeve.  He thought of the soft place in the hard head of the Iron King, a weak part in the strong character of old Aaron Rockharrt—­personal vanity.

“With all possible respect and submission, my dear father, I would suggest that if you never thought of marrying again, you should do so now.”

“Fabian, I am seventy-seven years old.”

“In years, yes; but that is nothing to you.  You are not half that age in health, strength, vigor, and activity of mind and body.  What man of forty do you know who has anything approaching your energy?”

“None that I know of, indeed, Fabian,” said the Iron King, softening into complacency.

“No, none,” assented Mr. Fabian.  “Men die of old age at almost any time in their lives—­at forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—­but you in your strength of manhood are likely to reach your hundredth year and to be a hale old man then.  Now, and for many years to come, you will not be old at all.”

“Yes; I think I have twenty-five or thirty years longer to live.”

“And will you live those years in loneliness?  Cora will be sure to marry.  A young woman like Cora will not wear the willow long, believe me.  And when Cora leaves you, what then will you do?  You have no other daughter or granddaughter.  As for my promised wife, you yourself made it a condition of our marriage that we should have an establishment of our own.”