“I bear it most fully in mind, and I scout the vulgar impertinences of those who ridicule these marriages. I think there is something actually touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for the venerable object of his affections.”
“Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you,” said Mark, angrily.
“That sublime spectacle that the gods are said to love—a great man struggling with adversity—is so beautifully depicted in these unions.”
“Then why not—” He was going to say, “Why not marry her yourself?” but the fear of taking such a liberty with his distinguished friend just caught him in time and stopped him.
“I 'll tell you why not,” said Maitland, replying to the unuttered question. “If you have ever dined at a civic fête you 'll have remarked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous alderman will suffer to pass untasted,—a sort of sacrifice offered to public opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are polite enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there are temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of these. I might speculate in a bubble company, I might traffic in cotton shares, or even 'walk into' my best friend al faro, but I mustn't marry for money,—that's positive.”
“But apparently I might,” said Mark, sulkily.
“You might,” replied Maitland, with calm dignity of manner.
“It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself,” said Mark, while his face was flushed with temper. “Do you know that your friends the Grahams are here?”
“Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Rebecca slipping sideways through life on a jaunting-car.”
“And there's the old Commodore tramping over the house, and worrying every one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms here,—rooms dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years.”