“What about old John Durham?” suddenly suggested the Philosopher, the corners of his moustache going up in a little quizzical smile.
“Old John Durham!” exclaimed Maynard. “Why he might be her grandfather! Now if you had said young John Durham,—Jack—there might be something in it—though he was always a silly ass—but he’s gone—‘missing,’ they say—”
“Dead without a doubt,” said the Philosopher, pleasantly. “Killed in Flanders, quite needlessly. He was not called upon to fight at all—but being an American he was bound to indulge in a bit of braggadocio and offer to do battle for the ‘old country,’ and he’s had his way. It has struck me that his father, being left solitary, might think of marrying again. Rumour says he is a wealthy man—and Sylvia is a little creature who is accustomed to comfort, not to say luxury—”
“Of course she is!” and Dr. Maynard got flushed and excited. “Why shouldn’t she be? She’s always had plenty of money—she’ll always have it! She’s not obliged to marry an old sallow face like Durham to live like a princess if she wants to! God bless my soul, Craig—what are you driving at?”
The Philosopher smiled soothingly.
“My dear fellow, don’t lose your self-control over a trifling suggestion! All I have said is in the way of friendship and—and admiration for your young daughter. I think it would be very sad for her if at some time or other—far distant let us hope!—she were left alone in the world—even with plenty of money—having no one to advise her or to guard her interests. And I repeat that she ought to marry.” Here he paused—then added, “I am very fond of her myself!”
Dr. Maynard turned slowly round in his chair and surveyed him with a fixed stare of wonder.
“You?”
The Philosopher did not flinch.
“Yes. I!”