"Say, Lucas"—there was more than insistence in his tone this time; it held compulsion—"you aren't faint-hearted?"
The blue eyes began to smile. "I think not, Boney. But I've got to hang on for the present—till you and the boy are married. P'r'aps then—I'll take the risk."
Nap looked supercilious. "And if it is not my intention to marry?"
"You must marry, my dear fellow. You'll never be satisfied otherwise."
"You think marriage the hall-mark of respectability?" Nap sneered openly.
"I think," Lucas answered quietly, "that for you marriage is the only end. The love of a good woman would be your salvation. Yes, you may scoff. But—whether you admit it or not—it is the truth. And you know it."
But Nap had ceased already to scoff; the sneer had gone from his face. He had turned his head keenly as one who listens.
It was nearly a minute later that he spoke, and by that time the humming of an approaching motor was clearly audible.
Then, "It may be the truth," he said, in a tone as deliberate as his brother's, "and it may not. But—no good woman will ever marry me, Luke. And I shall never marry—anything else."
He stooped, offering his shoulder for support. "Another guest, I fancy.
Shall we go?"