“Not business,” said Mr. Haswell with a sigh.  “We have that all the week and there will be enough of it on Monday.”

“No,” he answered, “something more important.  About your niece Barbara.”

Mr. Haswell glanced at him with those little eyes of his which were so sharp that they seemed to bore like gimlets.

“Barbara?” he said.  “What of Barbara?”

“Can’t you guess, Haswell?  You are pretty good at it, generally.  Well, it is no use beating about the bush; I want to marry her.”

At this sudden announcement his partner became exceedingly interested.  Leaning back in the chair he stared at the decorated ceiling, and uttered his favourite wind-in-the-wires whistle.

“Indeed,” he said.  “I never knew that matrimony was in your line, Aylward, any more than it has been in mine, especially as you are always preaching against it.  Well, has the young lady given her consent?”

“No, I have not spoken to her.  I meant to do so this morning, but she has slipped off somewhere, with Vernon, I suppose.”

Mr. Haswell whistled again, but on a new note.

“Pray do stop that noise,” said Sir Robert; “it gets upon my nerves, which are shaky this morning.  Listen:  It is a curious thing, one less to be understood even than the coincidence of the Yellow God, but at my present age of forty-four, for the first time in my life I have committed the folly of what is called falling in love.  It is not the case of a successful, middle-aged man wishing to ranger himself and settle down with a desirable partie, but of sheer, stark infatuation.  I adore Barbara; the worse she treats me the more I adore her.  I had rather that the Sahara flotation should fail than that she should refuse me.  I would rather lose three-quarters of my fortune than lose her.  Do you understand?”

His partner looked at him, pursed up his lips to whistle, then remembered and shook his head instead.

“No,” he answered.  “Barbara is a nice girl, but I should not have imagined her capable of inspiring such sentiments in a man almost old enough to be her father.  I think that you are the victim of a kind of mania, which I have heard of but never experienced.  Venus—­or is it Cupid?—­has netted you, my dear Aylward.”

“Oh! pray leave gods and goddesses out of it, we have had enough of them already,” he answered, exasperated.  “That is my case at any rate, and what I want to know now is if I have your support in my suit.  Remember, I have something to offer, Haswell, for instance, a large fortune of which I will settle half—­it is a good thing to do in our business,—­and a baronetcy that will be a peerage before long.”

“A peerage!  Have you squared that?”

“I think so.  There will be a General Election within the next three months, and on such occasions a couple of hundred thousand in cool cash come in useful to a Party that is short of ready money.  I think I may say that it is settled.  She will be the Lady Aylward, or any other name she may fancy, and one of the richest women in England.  Now have I your support?”