Sylvester gave a nervous laugh. Lucian's sense of his own importance to Amethyst seemed ludicrously out of proportion to the reality. He thought of Sir Richard Grattan, and Prince Pontresina, and Lord Broadstairs, and of the various other men, who would have felt flattered by having it supposed that they had approached near enough to the beauty to propose to her. "She has many offers," he said, rather dryly; "I think you must be prepared for such a possibility." "Yes," said Lucian. "But it won't be worse than it has been. And if--" He did not finish the sentence, but over the beautiful face which some people called statuesque, and others wooden, came, for once, a flush and a change, and Sylvester thought that Sir Richard might suffer in comparison. "What's this Grattan like?" said Lucian, presently turning away. "Oh--he's a commonplace beast," said the finespun Sylvester, "an `oiled and curled Assyrian bull' sort of fellow. Sir Gorgius Midas--No, that's a libel. I don't know that he's a bad sort. He's all straight, and not bad-looking, and I shouldn't call him a cad exactly. He has as many millions as a man can want and two big estates, and a good moral character, and goes to church; and he's safe to be made a peer some day, and--it's blasphemy to couple him with--_her_!" Lucian was not an observant person, and, while he was sadly considering, that though he was himself a moral character and a church-goer, and not bad-looking, he would never be made a peer, and had hardly as many thousands as Amethyst might want, he did not notice that Sylvester stopped short, then hurried on. "That old scoundrel Broadstairs being out of the question, the Roman prince would be more in keeping. He _is_ a gentleman." "But I suppose he's a foreigner, and a Roman Catholic. And a foreign prince doesn't go for much," said Lucian anxiously. "Depends on the breed," said Sylvester. "But Grattan is the man." "I would rather not talk about her any more," said Lucian, and, strange to say, he did not talk about her, but went with Sylvester to make a provisional arrangement with the owner of the _Albatross_, and then talked about his travels, and his sick friend, to whom he seemed to have become much attached. Then they went back to the hotel and had dinner, and came up to London by the night train, as Lucian had proposed. Sylvester was tired with the two journeys, and with the strain on his mind, and went to bed for some hours. When he appeared again, Lucian, who had been to visit his tailor, and otherwise render himself fit for fashionable life, was sitting in the window reading "Iris." "I've telegraphed to Ashfield. Some of my things are there," he said, "and I've got what I could. I should like to know if Iris was a real young woman. Because, if not, I don't see why he made such a fuss about her."