“To a man, my boy,” said the father, holding out his hand, which the son eagerly grasped. “Then now we understand each other?”
“And no mistake, guv’nor.”
“You mustn’t let her slip through your fingers, my boy.”
“Likely, dad!”
“You must be careful; no more scandals—no more escapades—no follies of any kind.”
“I’ll be a regular saint, dad. I say, think I ought to read for the church?”
“Good gracious me, Claud, my dear, what do you mean?”
“White choker, flopping felt, five o’clock tea, and tennis, mother. Kate would like that sort of thing.”
Wilton, senior, smiled grimly.
“No, no, my boy, be the quiet English gentleman, and let her see that you really care for her and want to make her happy. Poor girl, she wants love and sympathy.”