“Thanks, very much,” said Mr Armstrong, as he turned on his heel.
Roger, after a long ramble in the park with his fair tormentor, returned about noon, flushed and excited.
“Armstrong, old man,” said he, “what’s to be done? She’s kind to me—horribly kind; but whenever I get near the subject she laughs me off it, and holds me at arm’s length. What’s the use of my name and my money and my prospects, if they can’t win her? If I jest, she’s serious, and if I’m serious, she jests—we can’t hit it. What’s to be done, I say?”
“Patience,” said the tutor; “it took several years to capture Troy.”
“All very well for an old bachelor like you. I expected you’d say something like that. I know I could make her happy if she’d let me try. But she won’t even let me tell her I love her. What should you do yourself?”
Mr Armstrong coloured up at the bare notion of such a dilemma.
“I think I might come to you and ask your advice,” said he.
Roger laughed rather sadly.
“I know,” said he. “Of course it’s a thing one has to play off one’s own bat, but I sometimes wish I were anything but the heir of Maxfield. She might care for me then.”
“You can disinherit yourself by becoming a criminal, or marrying under age—”