“The chivalry of woman, Syl.”
Respect kept Sylvester from contradiction, but his lips curled somewhat ironically.
“If a woman won't have a man when he is up, will she rush into his arms when he is down?”
“It often happens, my boy,” replied the old man.
Sylvester took one or two turns about the room. Then he paused by the table and lifted his wine-glass.
“Here's to our friend Roderick's confusion,” said he. “I'm afraid I have been slack in carrying out your wishes, but now I'll use every means in my power to stop the marriage.” Matthew deliberately set down the glass which he happened to be holding in his hand, and remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he spoke.
“I can't drink a toast like that, nor must you. I release you entirely from your promise. I have reason to believe I may have misjudged Roderick, and I have no right to interfere. It is my wish that the marriage should take place.”
This was final. Sylvester made an Englishman's awkward little bow of acquiescence.
“I have no personal feelings in the matter, as you are aware,” said he. “On the other hand, if Roderick should be proved to be—well, as undesirable as you thought, it would be wise to let Ella know, I suppose?”
“I would not have her marry a scamp,” replied Matthew, in a low voice. “It would break my heart. But, O God! Syl, what is a scamp? Which of us dare judge his fellow?” He was feeling utterly weary, and from his prostration came the personal utterance which his ordinary strength rigidly restrained.