“Not at all.  She hasn’t in the remotest way betrayed such a thought —­be assured of that.  She isn’t the sort of girl to do such a thing.  It’s entirely my own thought.”

The artist changed his seat, and for a moment wore a look of perturbed reflection.

“How the deuce,” he exclaimed, “can you come and talk to me like this when you know I’ve as good as committed myself—?”

“Yes, and in a wobbling, half-hearted way which means you had no right even to think of committing yourself.  You care nothing about that other girl—­”

“You’re mistaken.  I care a good deal.  In fact—­”

“In fact” echoed Warburton with good-natured scorn so much that you’ve all but made up your mind to go down to Southwold whilst she is there!  Bosh!  You cared for one girl in a way you’ll never care for another.”

“Well—­perhaps—­yes that may be true—­”

“Of course it’s true.  If you don’t marry her, go in for a prize beauty or for an heiress or anything else that’s brilliant.  Think of the scope before a man like you.”

Franks smiled complacently once more.

“Why, that’s true,” he replied.”  I was going to tell you about my social adventures.  Who do you think I’ve been chumming with?  Sir Luke Griffin—­the great Sir Luke.  He’s asked me down to his place in Leicestershire, and I think I shall go.  He’s really a very nice fellow.  I always imagined him loud, vulgar, the typical parvenu.  Nothing of the kind—­no one would guess that he began life in a grocer’s shop.  Why, he can talk quite decently about pictures, and really likes them.”

Warburton listened with a chuckle.

“Has he daughters?”

“Three, and no son.  The youngest, about seventeen, an uncommonly pretty girl.  Well, as you say, why shouldn’t I marry her and a quarter of a million?  By Jove!  I believe I could.  She was here with her father yesterday.  I’m going to paint the three girls together.  —­Do you know, Warburton, speaking without any foolish vanity, what astonishes me is to think of the enormous choice of wives there is for a man of decent appearance and breeding who succeeds in getting himself talked about.  Without a joke, I am convinced I know twenty girls, and more or less nice girls, who would have me at once, if I asked them.  I’m not a conceited fellow—­am I now?  I shouldn’t say this to any one else.  I’m simply convinced of its being a fact.”

Warburton declared his emphatic agreement.

“Seeing that,” he added, “why are you in such a hurry?  Your millionaire grocer is but a steppingstone; who knows but you may soon chum with dukes?  If any man living ought to be cautious about his marriage, it’s you.”

The artist examined his friend with a puzzled smile.

“I should like to know, Warburton, how much of this is satire, and how much serious advice.  Perhaps it’s all satire—­and rather savage?”

“No, no, I’m speaking quite frankly.”