In Harvey's mind the story had a somewhat different aspect. He knew nothing personally of this Mr. Winter, who might indeed be an incarnation of snobbery; on the other hand, Cecil Morphew had his defects, and even to a liberal-minded parent might not recommend himself as a son-in-law. Then again, the young lady herself, now about six and twenty, must surely have been influenced by some other motive than respect for her parents' wishes, in thus protracting her engagement with a lover who had a secure, though modest, income. Was it not conceivable that she inherited something of the paternal spirit? or, at all events, that her feelings had not quite the warmth that Morphew imagined?

'I'm glad it's over,' he replied cordially. 'Now begins a new life for you.'

'But eight years—eight years of waiting——'

'Hang it, what is your age? Thirty! Why, you're only just old enough. No man ought to marry before thirty.'

Morphew interrupted vehemently.

'That's all rot! Excuse me; I can't help it. A man ought to marry when he's urged to it by his nature, and as soon as he finds the right woman. If I had married eight years ago——.' He broke off with an angry gesture, misery in his eyes. 'You don't believe that humbug, Rolfe; you repeat it just to console me. There's little consolation, I can assure you. I was two and twenty; she, nineteen. Mature man and woman; and we longed for each other. Nothing but harm could come of waiting year after year, wretched both of us.'

'I confess,' said Harvey, 'I don't quite see why she waited after twenty-one.'

'Because she is a good, gentle girl, and could not bear to make her father and mother unhappy. The blame is all theirs—mean, shallow, grovelling souls!'

'What about her mother now?'

'Oh, she was never so obstinate as the old jackass. She'll have little enough to live upon, and we shall soon arrange things with her somehow. Is it credible that human beings can be so senseless? For years now, their means have been growing less and less, just because the snobbish idiot would keep up appearances. If he had lived a little longer, the widow would have had practically no income at all. Of course, she shared in the folly, and I'm only sorry she won't suffer more for it. They didn't enjoy their lives—never have done. They lived in miserable slavery to the opinion of their fellow-snobs. You remember that story about the flowers at their silver wedding: two hundred pounds—just because Mrs. Somebody spent as much—when they couldn't really afford two hundred shillings. And they groaned over it—he and she—like people with the stomachache. Why, the old fool died of nothing else; he was worn out by the fear of having to go into a smaller house.'