Again Craven Black laughed softly, well pleased with his son’s mood.
“Did you see Hawkhurst as you came?” he asked, with seeming irrelevancy. “It’s one of the grandest places in Kent.”
“I saw it. The driver pointed it out to me.”
“How did it look to you?”
“Like heaven.”
“How would you like to be master of that heaven?”
Rufus stared at his father with wide, incredulous eyes.
“You are chaffing me,” said the young man, his countenance falling.
“I am in serious earnest. The owner of Hawkhurst is a young girl, who is expected home from school to-day. She has lived the life of a nun in her French school, and does not know one young man from another. She will be beset with suitors immediately, and the one who comes first stands the best chance of winning her. I want you to make love to her and marry her.”
Rufus Black’s face paled. The suggestion nearly overcame him. The project looked stupendous, chimerical.