“I know it. I’ve every intention of marrying.”
“No one in your eye?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll marry Eustacie,” said Sylvester. “Pull the bell!”
Sir Tristram obeyed, but said with a look of amusement: “Your dying wish, Sylvester?”
“I shan’t live the week out,” replied Sylvester cheerfully. “Heart and hard living, Tristram. Don’t pull a long face at my funeral! Eighty years is enough for any man, and I’ve had the gout for twenty of them.” He saw his valet come into the room, and said: “Send Mademoiselle to me.”
“You take a great deal for granted, Sylvester,” remarked Sir Tristram, as the valet went out again.
Sylvester had leaned his head back against the pillows, and closed his eyes. There was a suggestion of exhaustion in his attitude, but when he opened his eyes they were very much alive, and impishly intelligent. “You would not have come here, my dear Tristram, had you not already made up your mind.”
Sir Tristram smiled a little reluctantly, and transferred his attention to the fire.
It was not long before the door opened again. Sir Tristram turned as Mademoiselle de Vauban came into the room, and stood looking at her under bent brows.