"Absolutely never," flashed Sylvia, showing all the celebrated family obstinacy by her beautiful set mouth, "I'd rather——"
"Never mind what you'd rather. I know what you'd rather, thanks very much. All right, you mean it. Cross him out. And now we know where we are."
"But still I'm afraid ... you don't seem to think I ought to marry Mr. Woodville, do you?"
"Not that exactly," said Savile. "But I think the man who's been making love to my sister ought to marry her. What's more, he's got to."
"Oh, Savile, how can you! Don't you think he cares for me?"
"Off the rails as usual! Yes, I do think so, but it doesn't matter a straw what my thoughts are. It matters what's going to be done."
"But what can be done? Unless he goes away to Athens, I mean."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Savile, starting up. "What's the use of all his friends—Chetwode, and Mervyn, and Wilton, Vere and Broughton, and heaps more—if they can't get him something? A splendid chap like old Woodville! He was looked upon as a brilliant man at Balliol. I happen to know that—never mind how."
She kissed him. "Do you think, then, that Arthur Mervyn would help him? I mean, do you think that Frank might go on the stage?"
He looked at her quite anxiously, as though he thought her troubles had turned her brain.