“Thank you. Well, idle, according to the accepted ideas of some of the Americans we meet abroad. Dollars—making dollars—their whole conversation chinks of the confounded coin, and their ladies’ dresses rustle with greenbacks. I hate money-making, but I like money for my slave, which bears me into good society and among the beauties of nature. Yes, I am an idler—full, perhaps, of dilettantism.”
“Rather a long preface, Mr Barron,” said Sir Mark gruffly. “Make headway, please. What is it you wish to say?”
“I think you know, sir,” said the other warmly. “I lived to thirty-seven, hardly giving a thought to the other sex, save as agreeable companions. I met you and your niece and daughter over yonder at Macugnaga, and the whole world was changed.”
“Humph!”
“I am not a boy, sir. I speak to you as a man of the world, and I tell you plainly that I love her as a strong man only can love.”
“Edith?”
“Don’t trifle with me, sir!” cried Barron, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table, and gazing almost fiercely in the old sailor’s eyes.
“Humph! my daughter, then. And you have told her all this?”
“Sir Mark Jerrold! Have I ever given you cause to think I was other than a gentleman?”
“No, no,” said the admiral hastily. “I beg your pardon. But this is all very sudden; we are such new acquaintances.”