‘My——Oh, of course I might have known you would come to look at it like that,’ says Wyndham, shrugging his shoulders. With another man he might have been offended. But it is hard to be offended with Crosby. ‘Still, you are a sort of fellow one might trust to take a broader view of things.’
‘What broader do you want me to take?’ begins Crosby, slightly amused. ‘But to get back to our argument—mine, rather. I think it will be bad for you if you quarrel with Shangarry over this matter. The title, of course, must be yours—but barren honours are hardly worth getting. And he may leave his money away from you. You have told me before this that he has immense sums in his hands to dispose of—and much of the property is not entailed. You should think, Paul—you should think.’ He was the last man in the world to think himself on such an occasion as this.
‘I have thought.’
‘You mean?’
‘I don’t know what I mean,’ says Wyndham; then, with sudden impatience: ‘Is love necessary to marriage?’
Crosby laughs.
‘Is marriage necessary at all?’ says he. ‘Why not elect to do as I do, live and die a jolly old bachelor?’
‘Ah! I don’t believe in you,’ says Paul, with a rather mirthless smile. ‘If I went in for that state of life, depending on you as a companion, I should find myself left—sooner or later.’
‘Well, then,’ says Crosby, who has no prejudices, ‘why not marry her?’
‘Her?’