"Well, father,—how are you? You are looking as fresh as paint, sir."
"Thanks for the compliment, if you mean one. I am pretty well. I thought you were hunting somewhere."
"So I am; but I have just come up to town to see you. I find you have been smoking;—may I light a cigar?"
"I never do smoke cigars here, Gerard. I'll offer you a cigarette." The cigarette was reluctantly offered, and accepted with a shrug. "But you didn't come here merely to smoke, I dare say."
"Certainly not, sir. We do not often trouble each other, father; but there are things about which I suppose we had better speak. I'm going to be married!"
"To be married!" The tone in which Mr. Maule, senior, repeated the words was much the same as might be used by any ordinary father if his son expressed an intention of going into the shoe-black business.
"Yes, sir. It's a kind of thing men do sometimes."
"No doubt;—and it's a kind of thing that they sometimes repent of having done."
"Let us hope for the best. It is too late at any rate to think about that, and as it is to be done, I have come to tell you."
"Very well. I suppose you are right to tell me. Of course you know that I can do nothing for you; and I don't suppose that you can do anything for me. As far as your own welfare goes, if she has a large fortune,—"