“You can’t stand aside, with a shrug of your shoulders, and see the family title go down. Rank has its obligations and duties as well as its privileges.”
Lord Trafford sighed again. All this was a truism which he had learned in his cradle.
“There is only one way in which you can pick the House of Belfayre from the dust,” continued Lord Selvaine; “only one way in which you can save the good old name and the good old acres. You must marry.”
Trafford flung his cigarette in the fire, and made an impatient movement. Lord Selvaine looked at him through half-closed lids.
“My dear boy, I know exactly what you feel. I have been through the fire. But I have drawn back in time. I know, when I speak of marrying, your thoughts, your heart at once fly to Ada Lancing.”
Trafford started, and frowned.
“Forgive me, my dear Traff! One must speak sometimes with the muzzle off. I admire, I adore Ada Lancing; she has only one defect. She is as beautiful as a dream, as imperial as an empress, but, unfortunately, she has no money. And what we want is money. Money! Not a little, but a large sum. An enormous sum!” He sipped his soda and whisky, and settled himself more comfortably in his easy-chair. Trafford went to the window, and looked out at the night. Every word this worldly wise uncle of his spoke jarred upon him. And yet, how worldly wise, how unanswerable it was!
“With a large sum of money,” continued Lord Selvaine, “we could recover ourselves. The mortgages could be paid off. Belfayre could expand itself; in short, the family could hold up its head again, and you, my dear Traff, instead of being the heir to one of the oldest titles and an ocean of debts and incumbrances, would be a real duke with a real dukedom.”
“What is it you are driving at?” asked Lord Trafford, impatiently.
“Only this,” said his uncle, blandly, “that to-night I have seen a way to removing all our difficulties.”