‘Then you will the more readily pardon me, Jorian.’

‘Oh, I pardon you,’ Jorian sneered, tripped to the carpet by such ignoble mildness.  ‘A breakfast is no great loss.’

My father assured him he would have a serious conversation with Alphonse, for whom he apologized by saying that Alphonse had not, to his knowledge, served as hospital cook anywhere, and was therefore quite possibly not sufficiently solicitous for appetites and digestions of invalids.

Jorian threw back his head as though to discharge a spiteful sarcasm with good aim; but turning to me, said, ’Harry, the thing must be done; your father must marry.  Notoriety is the season for a pick and choice of the wealthiest and the loveliest.  I refuse to act the part of warming-pan any longer; I refuse point blank.  It’s not a personal feeling on my part; my advice is that of a disinterested friend, and I tell you candidly, Roy, set aside the absurd exhibition of my dancing attendance on that last rose of Guildhall,—­egad, the alderman went like Summer, and left us the very picture of a fruity Autumn,—­I say you can’t keep her hanging on the tree of fond expectation for ever.  She’ll drop.’

‘Catch her, Jorian; you are on guard.’

’Upwards of three hundred thousand, if a penny, Roy Richmond!  Who?  I?  I am not a fortune-hunter.’

‘Nor am I, friend Jorian.’

’No, it ’s because you’re not thorough:  you ‘ll fall between the stools.’

My father remarked that he should visit this upon Mr. Alphonse.

’You shook off that fine Welsh girl, and she was in your hand—­the act of a madman!’ Jorian continued.  ’You’re getting older:  the day will come when you’re a flat excitement.  You know the first Lady Edbury spoilt one of your best chances when you had the market.  Now you’re trifling with the second.  She’s the head of the Light Brigade, but you might fix her down, if she’s not too much in debt.  You ’re not at the end of your run, I dare say.  Only, my good Roy, let me tell you, in life you mustn’t wait for the prize of the race till you touch the goal—­if you prefer metaphor.  You generally come forward about every seven years or so.  Add on another seven, and women’ll begin to think.  You can’t beat Time, mon Roy.’

‘So,’ said my father, ’I touch the goal, and women begin to think, and I can’t beat time to them.  Jorian, your mind is in a state of confusion.  I do not marry.’

‘Then, Roy Richmond, hear what a friend says . . .’

‘I do not marry, Jorian, and you know my reasons.’

‘Sentiments!’

‘They are a part of my life.’