Claire’s careworn face grew more cloudy as she uttered a low sigh.
“But look here, father; what do you mean,” repeated Morton, “by your magnificent chance?”
The Master of the Ceremonies coughed behind one delicate hand, brushed a few imaginary specks from his sleeve, then took out his snuff-box, and refreshed himself with a pinch in a very elaborate way.
“You are a man now, Morton, and I will speak plainly to you, as I have before now spoken plainly to your sisters. My only hope for the future is to see you both make good marriages.”
“Why, that won’t send you to heaven, father,” said the lad, grinning.
“I mean my—our—earthly future, sir,” said the old man. “This is no time for ribald jest. Remember your duty to me, sir, and follow out my wishes.”
“Oh, very well, father,” said Morton sulkily.
“But, papa dear, you surely do not think of Morton marrying,” said Claire anxiously.
“And why not, madam, pray? Younger men have married before now, even princes and kings, when it was politically necessary, at twelve and fifteen; my memory does not serve me at the moment for names, but let that pass.”
“But have you any fixed ideas upon the subject, papa?”