“My dear sir, your views of life are always so just,—are always clothed in such graceful and convincing language that I cannot answer, I can only admire and bow. I trust, my dear sir, you do not oppose our love?” and Candituft shuddered at the dreadful suspicion.
“By no means,” said Jericho. “Marry, marry, and be as happy as you can.”
“A thousand thanks. You are aware, my dear sir, that my family is rich”—
“Eh?” cried the Man of Money.
“Rich in historical associations. The blood of the Canditufts fructifies the fields of Cressy and Agincourt.”
“Humph! And what’s the crop—what’s the yield? I have a great respect for blood, Mr. Candituft; it is, in this world, a very useful, a very indispensable article. Nevertheless, blood in a field—no matter how old—is not the best investment. I speak, you know, as a vulgar Man of Money.”
“I was about to observe,” said the easy-tempered, but withal pensive suitor, “that I have too pure, too deep an affection for Miss Pennibacker, to make her the partner of only the glories of my house. A bachelor, my dear sir, though poor, receives a lustrous honour from the chivalry of his name; but it is an honour that, alone, will not do to marry upon.”
“You mean,” and Jericho grimly grinned, “the honour that’s enough for one is not enough for two.”
“Why, yes”—and Candituft hesitated—“I may say that is pretty well my meaning.”
“And in this marriage with Miss Pennibacker, you propose to find the chivalry, the honour, if I—if I find the money? Eh?” cried Jericho.