“Father?”
“My dear?”
“Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?”
“I think he’s a fine young fellow,” he said, avoiding her eyes.
“He’s quite nice,” said Molly quietly.
McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it. If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it, but he was not good at hinting. A lifetime passed in surroundings where the subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.
“He’s the Earl of Dreever, my dear.”
He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the statement in a comfortable garment of words.
“Why, you see, you’re young, Molly. It’s only natural you shouldn’t look on these things sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You expect this young fellow to be like the heroes of the novels you read. When you’ve lived a little longer, my dear, you’ll see that there’s nothing in it. It isn’t the hero of the novel you want to marry, it’s the man who’ll make you a good husband.”
This remark struck Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he repeated it.