“Upon my honour, no.”
The Marquis laughed too, and put his cigar back in his mouth. He took it out again almost at once. “It wouldn’t be bad to have a son,” he said. “I mean an heir, you know.”
“The first step is a wife then, no doubt.”
“Most women are so tedious. Still, you understand my feeling?”
“I might in your position. For myself, I hate brats.”
“Ah, you will feel it some day.”
Vane thought this rather barefaced. “When did it attack you?” he asked with a smile.
“This afternoon,” answered the Marquis, gravely.
Vane’s cynical humour was tickled by the dénoûment this admission suggested. “Gad! I should like to see Gerald Neston’s face!” he chuckled, forgetting his own designs in his gratification.
“Of course she’s—well, the deuce of a flirt,” said the Marquis.