Sylvester disregarded the letters lying on the hall table, and ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where somewhat breathlessly he expressed his delight and wonder at seeing his father. But he was struck almost immediately with dismay at the look of illness on the old man's face.
“You have no business to be here,” he exclaimed. “You ought to be in bed. For God's sake, father, what is wrong with you?” He looked at him keenly. “It is the heart, isn't it?”
“Yes, that and other things,” Matthew admitted; “I have been a bit seedy lately. But I'll look after myself; don't fret. And I didn't come here to talk about my inside. I had to come up to town on business, so I thought I'd look in instead of writing. I haven't been waiting long. You see, your man has made me quite comfortable.”
He pointed to a tray by his side with whisky, soda, and glasses, and a box of cigars. Sylvester poured himself out a drink and bit off the end of a cigar.
“What's gone wrong?” he asked, striking a match.
“This confounded marriage of Ella's.”
“I wouldn't worry about it, father, if I were you. They are just worth one another. She has proved she's on his level by accepting him.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said the old man. “That shows you know nothing of women. It is one of the most astounding facts about an astounding sex, that women of absolute refinement will throw themselves away upon the most obvious cad, be utterly blind to his coarseness, if once he gets a hold upon them. It's a kind of helpless infatuation. It doesn't at all argue the degeneration of the woman.”
“Well, you can withhold your consent, and in the mean time try to open her eyes.”
“I have already given my consent, and there are reasons why I can't open her eyes,” said Matthew, rather slowly, looking at his finger tips.