Sir John's hand was at his mouth. He stood up his full six feet two and looked hard at his son, whose eyes were level with his own. They were ideal representatives of their school.
“And what do you propose marrying upon? She, I understand, has about eight hundred a year. I respect you too much to suspect any foolish notions of love in a cottage.”
Jack Meredith made no reply. He was entirely dependent upon his father.
“Of course,” said Sir John, “when I die you will be a baronet, and there will be enough to live on like a gentleman. You had better tell Miss Chyne that. She may not know it. Girls are so innocent. But I am not dead yet, and I shall take especial care to live some time.”
“In order to prevent my marriage?” suggested Jack. He was still smiling, and somehow Sir John felt a little uneasy. He did not understand that smile.
“Precisely so,” he said, rather indistinctly.
“What is your objection?” inquired Jack Meredith, after a little pause.
“I object to the girl.”
“Upon what grounds?”
“I should prefer you to marry a woman of heart.”