The major hesitated and coughed; finally he said:  “The boy drinks, Sylvia; further than that I have no knowledge.”

“The medical books tell me that the use of alcohol tends to break down self-control, and to make continence impossible.  And if that be true, you must admit that we have a right to ask assurances.  What do you suppose that Roger and his crowd are doing when they go roistering about the streets at night?  What do they do when they go off to Mardi Gras?  Or at college—­you know that Cousin Clive had to get him out of trouble several times.  Go and ask Clive if Roger has ever been exposed to the possibility of these diseases.”

“My child,” said the major, “Clive would not feel he had the right to tell me such things about his friend.”

“Not even when the friend wants to marry his cousin?”

“But such questions are not asked, my daughter.”

“Papa, I have thought this matter out carefully, and I hava something definite to propose to you.  I have no idea of stopping with what Clive Chilton may or may not see fit to tell about his chum.  I want you to go to Roger.”

Major Castleman’s face wore a blank stare.

“If he’s going to marry your daughter, you have the right to ask about his past.  What I want you to tell him is that you will get the name of a reputable specialist in these diseases, and that before he can have your daughter he must present you with a letter from this man, to the effect that he is fit to marry.”

The poor major was all but speechless.  “My child, who ever heard of such a proposition?”

“I don’t know that any one ever did, papa.  But it seems to me time they should begin to hear of it; and I don’t see who can have a better right to take the first step than you and I, who have paid such a dreadful price for our neglect.”

Sylvia had been prepared for opposition—­the instinctive opposition which men manifest to having this embarrassing subject dragged out into the light of day.  Even men who have been chaste themselves—­good fathers of families like the major—­cannot be unaware of the complications incidental to frightening their women-folk, and setting up an impossibly high standard in sons-in-law.  But Sylvia stood by her guns; at last she brought her father to his knees by the threat that if he could not bring himself to talk with Roger Peyton, she, Sylvia Castleman, would do it.

15.  The young suitor came by appointment the next day, and had a session with the Major in his office.  After he had gone, Sylvia went to her father and found him pacing the floor, with an extinct cigar between his lips, and several other ruined cigars lying on the hearth.

“You asked him, papa?”

“I did, Sylvia.”

“And what did he say?”

“Why, daughter——­” The major flung his cigar from him with desperate energy.  “It was most embarrassing!” he exclaimed—­“most painful!” His pale old face was crimson with blushes.