"Oh, the widow of General Bloomingfield, who died three years ago. Yes, I remember her—a very fine creature, most certainly—but I never dreamed of her in the light of a wife. In fact, I never dreamed of marrying again," said the Iron King, speaking with unusual gentleness.
Mr. Fabian laughed in his sleeve. He thought of the soft place in the hard head of the Iron King, a weak part in the strong character of old Aaron Rockharrt—personal vanity.
"With all possible respect and submission, my dear father, I would suggest that if you never thought of marrying again, you should do so now."
"Fabian, I am seventy-seven years old."
"In years, yes; but that is nothing to you. You are not half that age in health, strength, vigor, and activity of mind and body. What man of forty do you know who has anything approaching your energy?"
"None that I know of, indeed, Fabian," said the Iron King, softening into complacency.
"No, none," assented Mr. Fabian. "Men die of old age at almost any time in their lives—at forty, fifty, sixty, seventy—but you in your strength of manhood are likely to reach your hundredth year and to be a hale old man then. Now, and for many years to come, you will not be old at all."
"Yes; I think I have twenty-five or thirty years longer to live."
"And will you live those years in loneliness? Cora will be sure to marry. A young woman like Cora will not wear the willow long, believe me. And when Cora leaves you, what then will you do? You have no other daughter or granddaughter. As for my promised wife, you yourself made it a condition of our marriage that we should have an establishment of our own."
"For the dignity of the house of Rockharrt. Yes, Fabian."