Perhaps it would be better not, said the Green Chartreuse in an aside to Messrs. Crosse and Blackwell’s marmalade.
Very disagreeable, though, thought Father, and very serious, too. There was nothing more painful to a right-thinking parent than to see a son—and an Eldest Son, too—making hay of his prospects.
Didn’t quite agree again with his father. The Green Chartreuse was suffering evidently from an attack of valor this morning.
“But there are the facts, my dear boy. Let them be looked in the face.”
“I wish, father, you would consent to meet Mary. She’s an absolute nailer, you know.”
Father was so disconcerted by the behavior of Son that he kind of began to clothe his thoughts with language. A singularly unfortunate entanglement; people would be shocked; family interests would suffer; such unions never turned out well—how could they? Besides, Warlock was so sensitive. In fact, with all the conviction of which he was capable—and a Proconsul is capable of a good deal—Father urged Son to pause and reflect.
Son had already done so.
Was it conceivable?
Oh, yes, quite, if Father didn’t mind his saying so. He had a private income, and she was the nicest girl in London; an opinion, he was sure, in which Father was bound to concur, when he’d seen her.
But...!!