“It has always seemed so strange to me,” resumed Mr. Spenser Churchill, ignoring the interruption, “that you have never turned your attention to matrimony.”
The young fellow stared at him, then laughed sarcastically.
“You think that the palatial dimensions of this room are too large for one individual; that I should be more comfortable if I shared my sixpenny plate of meat and thread-bare wardrobe with another? My dear Churchill, you might as well ask a limping, footsore tramp why he doesn’t turn his attention to riding in a carriage and pair! Matrimony! Good Lord! I am not quite out of my mind!”
“But your wife need not be poor, my dear Percy. She may be rich in this world’s goods——”
“Oh, yes, I didn’t think of that; and you suggest that there are hundreds of wealthy heiresses who are dying to become Mrs. Percy Levant; perishing with the desire to bestow their hands and fortunes on the music teacher of Soho!”
“You would not be the first man who has married money,” said the philanthropist, smoothly. “But let me be more explicit, my dear Percy. By one of those strange chances, which are indeed providential, I happen to be acquainted with a young lady who would, in all respects, make you a most suitable wife.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said Spenser Churchill, gravely, “the circumstances of the case are peculiar, not to say romantic. The fact is, I am that young lady’s guardian, not exactly such in a legally qualified sense, but by—er—an unfortunate accident; and, as her guardian, I am naturally desirous of promoting her present and future welfare. Ah, my dear Percy, how sacred a trust one undertakes when one accepts the care of a young and innocent girl!” and he looked up at the ceiling with a devout sigh.
Percy Levant smiled with mingled mockery and amusement.
“Very nice sentiments,” he said. “But go on. And this is the young lady you have in your eye for me, is it?”