"I never speculate so far as you are concerned," said Larpent, shaking the tobacco back into his pouch with care.
"You think it wouldn't matter, perhaps?" gibed Saltash. "My royal house is so inured to scandal that no one would expect anything else?"
"I don't think she is the sort to run away," said Larpent quietly. "And
I'm pretty sure of one thing. You could hold her if you tried."
"An ideal arrangement!" sneered Saltash. "And I should then settle down to a godly, righteous, and sober life, I suppose? Is that the idea?"
"You said it," observed Larpent, pushing his pipe into his mouth.
Saltash lodged one foot on the high fender, and stared at it. The sneer died out of his face and the old look, half mischievous, half melancholy, took its pace. "I haven't—seriously—contemplated marriage for eight years," he said, his mouth twitching a little as with a smile suppressed. "Not since the day I tried to steal Maud Brian away from Jake—and failed—rather signally. I don't think I've ever done anything quite so low down since."
Larpent lighted his pipe with grave attention. "A good thing for you both that you did fail!" he observed.
"Think so?" Saltash glanced at him. "Why?"
"She isn't the woman for you." Larpent spoke with the absolute conviction of one who knows. "She has too many ideals. Now this sprat you caught at Valrosa—has none."
"Not so sure of that," said Saltash.