“It is sad; but the world is made so. And then Providence steeps elderly people in a happy hallucination. They generally forget that they are old; or at least they forget that they ever were young, and they think young people so ineffably silly that youth itself seems despicable to their sober old minds. But you and I have a long life to the good, dear love, before the coming of grey hairs and elderly prejudices.” And then he began to talk of ways and means, as if they were going to be married next week. “We shall have enough for bread and cheese,” he said. “I am better off than a good many younger sons; for a certain old grandfather of mine provided for the younger branches. It is quite possible that Lostwithiel may never marry--indeed, he seems to me very decided against matrimony, and in that case those who come after us must inherit title and estate in days to come.” “Pray don’t talk so,” cried Allegra, horrified. “It sounds as if you were speculating upon your brother’s death.” “On Lostwithiel’s death? Not for worlds. God bless him, wherever he may be. You don’t know how fond we two fellows are of each other. Only when a man is going to be married it behoves him to think even of the remote future. I shall have to talk to the colonel, remember; and he will expect me to be business-like.” “I hope you don’t think Martin mercenary,” said Allegra. “There never was a man who set less value on money. It wouldn’t make any difference to him if you had not a penny. And as for me, I have a little income from my mother--more than enough to buy frocks and things--and beyond that I can earn my own living. So you really needn’t trouble yourself about me.” There was a touching simplicity in her speech, mingled with a slight flavour of audacity, as of an emancipated young woman, which amused her lover, reminding him of a heroine of Murger’s, or Musset’s, a brave little grisette, who was willing to work hard for the _ménage à deux_, and who wanted nothing from her lover but love. He looked into the candid face, radiant in the fire-glow, and he told himself that this was just the one woman for whom his heart had kept itself empty, like a temple waiting for its god, in all the years of his manhood. And now the temple doors had opened wide, the gates had been lifted up, and the goddess had marched to her place, triumphant and all-conquering. The clock on the mantelpiece struck six, and the old eight-day clock in the hall followed like a solemn echo. Captain Hulbert started up. “So late! Why, we have been talking for nearly two hours!” he exclaimed, “and I have a budget of letters to write for the night mail. Good-bye, darling--or I’ll say _au revoir_, for I’ll walk down again after dinner, and get half an hour’s chat with Disney, if you don’t think it will be too late for me to see him.”