The younger man sighed, but the baronet, Sir Matthew Rose, looked as cold and impregnable as a rock.
It was the close of a golden September day; the misty shadows were falling across the well-wooded park and meadow-lands which surrounded the old baronial pile known as The Towers.
"You will pardon me saying so, father, but I think you are wrong," went on Matthew fearlessly.
"That's all you know about it," answered the baronet testily.
But Matthew, heedless of his father's irritability, pursued the subject bravely.
"It is but fitting that one of Gilbert's boys should be your heir. My life, I sometimes feel, will not be a long one, and—"
"Nonsense, man, nonsense!" interrupted Sir Matthew. "I intend that The Towers shall be yours, and that after your death—and you'll make old bones yet, you mark my words! It shall descend to your son, for you must marry, Matthew."
A look of pain crossed the young man's features, which was not unnoticed by the baronet's quick eye.
"You think too much of your physical defect, you do, 'pon my word," said his father, but there was a tenderness underlying the irritation in his voice.
There was no answer to this speech, as at this moment a servant entered with the evening letters.