"Don't you think a man ought to have himself well in hand?" he asked.
"Oh, I suppose so; but I am not such a believer in the universality of self-discipline in the young men of the day. They don't control their desires for high play, costly cigars, horses, wine, or enjoyment generally. It is only in the matter of marriage that I have noticed this singular discretion overtakes them. Don't you think one may safely attribute it to another motive than self-control? Caution is often merely a name for selfishness."
"And you think this applies to me?" said Claud, slowly, hanging up his cap with deliberation. "I don't say you're wrong. But it's a nice point, which I should like to get settled for me—which is the least lovable course? To decline to obey the dictates of your heart from motives of prudence, or to follow the lead of your feelings, and so drag down to poverty the woman you profess to love, but in reality only desire to possess?"
"My dear fellow," said Henry, affectionately, "you are taking this too seriously. It's a question one can't well discuss in the abstract, particularly now, when you look as haggard as a ghost and are ready to drop with fatigue. Come, you must really get some rest. It is seven o'clock, I declare, and you have been on your legs for four-and-twenty hours."
Claud did certainly looked fagged now that the full light of high day fell on his pale face. He sat down on the lowest stair, yawned, stretched, and asked, sleepily,
"What time is the inquest?"
"Twelve o'clock. You go straight upstairs, I'll send you your breakfast in a quarter-of-an-hour, and then you are to lie down and get two or three hours' sleep. I'll have you called in time. Come, get up."
Claud remained immovable.
"I wonder who he is," he said at last.
"Whom?"