“What’s this Grattan like?” said Lucian, presently turning away.
“Oh—he’s a commonplace beast,” said the finespun Sylvester, “an ‘oiled and curled Assyrian bull’ sort of fellow. Sir Gorgius Midas—No, that’s a libel. I don’t know that he’s a bad sort. He’s all straight, and not bad-looking, and I shouldn’t call him a cad exactly. He has as many millions as a man can want and two big estates, and a good moral character, and goes to church; and he’s safe to be made a peer some day, and—it’s blasphemy to couple him with—her!”
Lucian was not an observant person, and, while he was sadly considering, that though he was himself a moral character and a church-goer, and not bad-looking, he would never be made a peer, and had hardly as many thousands as Amethyst might want, he did not notice that Sylvester stopped short, then hurried on.
“That old scoundrel Broadstairs being out of the question, the Roman prince would be more in keeping. He is a gentleman.”
“But I suppose he’s a foreigner, and a Roman Catholic. And a foreign prince doesn’t go for much,” said Lucian anxiously.
“Depends on the breed,” said Sylvester. “But Grattan is the man.”
“I would rather not talk about her any more,” said Lucian, and, strange to say, he did not talk about her, but went with Sylvester to make a provisional arrangement with the owner of the Albatross, and then talked about his travels, and his sick friend, to whom he seemed to have become much attached. Then they went back to the hotel and had dinner, and came up to London by the night train, as Lucian had proposed.
Sylvester was tired with the two journeys, and with the strain on his mind, and went to bed for some hours. When he appeared again, Lucian, who had been to visit his tailor, and otherwise render himself fit for fashionable life, was sitting in the window reading “Iris.”
“I’ve telegraphed to Ashfield. Some of my things are there,” he said, “and I’ve got what I could. I should like to know if Iris was a real young woman. Because, if not, I don’t see why he made such a fuss about her.”
“Don’t you see,” said Sylvester, rather mistily, “she is the symbol of all that he felt to be the best—what he desired most. Perhaps at one time he desired a living Iris, but—but perhaps he had to content himself with knowing of her perfection.”