“If she were not it would be her own fault,” answered the Philosopher. “I should do my best to make her so. But let us say no more of it!”
He took up a book and turned it over with apparently sudden interest. Dr. Maynard looked at him, and a twinge of the gout affected him unpleasantly. He tried to picture the learned Walter Craig as his son-in-law,—but somehow failed in the effort. And yet!—Craig was a man of distinctive ability and reputation—he had his own special literary “clique” who called him “a Master,” and his position in the world of letters was unassailable—numbers of people were proud to know him. His wife—if he had a wife—would occupy a position of honour and some dignity. But Sylvia!—little Sylvia as Mrs. Walter Craig!—Even the compiler of “The Deterioriation of Language” could not forbear a passing thought as to “The Deterioration of a Woman’s Life!” He fidgeted on his chair and cast an appealing glance at the Philosopher.
“Craig,” he faltered, nervously, “I believe you are thinking that I may die any time—”
“My good fellow, of course you may!” blandly replied the Philosopher. “And so may I. My gout is not so ripe and well advanced as yours, but as Shakespeare’s Mercutio observed, ‘’Twill serve!’ Should it finish you off before me your daughter will be left comparatively unprotected. She has no relatives, so you once told me, but a divorced aunt. A divorced aunt is hardly a suitable companion. Now if I become her husband she at once steps to a platform of safety, and I can look after her till my own time comes; she will be then old enough and experienced enough to manage her own affairs.”
Maynard listened, with something of a distressed foreboding in his mind. There was truth, harsh truth, and cold reason in the Philosopher’s plain view of the possible circumstances—but, at the same time a cloud of depression darkened the poor old scholar’s soul. Almost he could have whimpered, like a hurt child. At last he summoned up a show of resolution.
“Have you ever spoken to Sylvia on—on—this subject?” he asked, tremulously.
“Never!” And the Philosopher assumed a truly “noble” aspect. “Can you imagine it! I should not dream of doing so without your permission.”
The old Doctor sighed.
“Thank you!” he said, meekly.
A pause ensued.