‘Three weeks, sir.’
‘Ah, long enough assuredly for so unimportant a step to be considered!’
Phil was too acute not to see that his adversary had scored here. He had, moreover, a trait of age seldom to be noticed in the young: he could laugh at his own foibles. He laughed now, well amused at his ardour, and, dropping lightly on his knees beside his father’s chair, took Meadowes’ long white hand in his with his sudden irresistible impetuosity.
‘Sir, will you not tell me the story of your heart?’ he said. ‘Sure every man alive hath felt as I feel now!’
‘My heart! ’twould be a history indeed,’ said Meadowes. He spoke uneasily, for he had reached that stage of moral decay which refuses to answer any serious questioning. With a quick shuffle of the conversational cards he passed on:—
‘A history indeed.—But to return to the subject in hand from which you try to escape: you have known Caroline Shepley for three weeks; you wish to marry her; I do not intend that you should; therefore there the case stands.’
Phil had risen and stood before his father again. There is nothing more irritating to the finer feelings than to have questions, which we put in all seriousness, answered lightly. Phil had for a moment thought he might gain his father’s confidence, but he had been mistaken. He felt jarred and baffled.
‘I am sorry, sir. I shall take my own way,’ he said.
‘Then I shall have no more to do with you, Philip.’
‘Then I shall have to provide for myself. You have at least given me brains enough for that,’ said Phil hotly.