“I hope so.”
“A good country practice is not to be sneezed at, but you will sneeze at it, I’m afraid. I see you trying to drain that snipe-bog you mention instead of keeping step on the high-road with Pawley.”
“I shall fight for more sanitary conditions.”
“Stripped already, I see. And up against a lady of quality! Now for my two words: ‘Go slow!’ Women never surrender their opinions to men they dislike. It’s a pity you can’t marry her and reach your objectives that way. What? Fifty-five! And a marriageable daughter! Another tip. Don’t make up to the daughter. Unless——” He chuckled, lighting a fresh cigar.
“Unless——?”
“I remember some transpontine story of a stout fellow like you who courted a rich widow with a pretty daughter. The rich widow accused the stout fellow of loving her money-bags more than herself. He made a very creditable bluff. Told her to deed every dollar she possessed to her daughter. And, begad! she called the bluff and did so. Then he bolted with the daughter!”
The evening ended where it began—in laughter.
On the steps of the Parthenon, when the nephew thanked the uncle for his entertainment, Sir Dion shook his hand very heartily.
“I wish you luck, my boy. If you get any of that rough shooting, send me a bird. I like the flavour of a wild pheasant. God bless you!”
Grimshaw, as he went back to his modest diggings, reflected that Sir Dion’s ways were not his, and yet the old fellow brimmed over with kindness, and assuredly attained his objectives.