"Why not!" argued Sir Horace, "a good-looking chap, a future baronet, with a pedigree that goes back to the Picts, is not to be despised!"
"He will be despised, all the same," muttered his nephew, in a tone of sombre conviction.
"And I tell you, you can't do better, Malcolm. I'll present you; it's an intimate sort of life—we all meet three or four times daily; golf and picnics are easily arranged. Then there is the Casino Terrace of a night, and romantic and sequestered walks hard by. In a week you should be able to report progress. The game lies to your hand!"
"I assure you, sir, I really could not face it; it's too cold-blooded! too bare-faced—and there is something unnatural in sitting here, on a bench before breakfast, coolly discussing a possible marriage with a girl to whom I've never even spoken!"
"A marriage discussed before breakfast is far more likely to be a success than one arranged after dinner!" responded Sir Horace, with knitted brows. "I'm afraid you are a fool! What have you against it?"
"Nothing. I admit that Miss Chandos is the prettiest girl I've seen for ages. I admire her immensely. Now if she had but a few hundreds a year——"
"She would not do at all," interrupted his uncle impatiently. "Well! the gods cannot help a man who refuses opportunity. Why should you not try your luck?"
"What's the good—it will only be adding to her scalps."
"Nothing venture, nothing have," declared Sir Horace, rising as he spoke. "Come, we must be moving—it is long past the time for my second glass."
Captain Haig got upon his legs with some reluctance, gave himself a little shake, stamped down his trousers, and in another moment was walking away in the footsteps of his mentor.