“Yes, I know there are objections,” he said. “To begin with, people will talk. Luckily, however, there is nothing in the world which matters so little as what such people say. The other objections are more important. It would be better for the child not to be in London. But I dare say things will work out somehow. For the present, at any rate, I shall certainly do that. It is bad enough for a child to be fatherless and nameless. What an ass poor Frank was! And what a good one!” “What was the girl like?” asked Arthur. “Did you know her?” “Yes, but very slightly. Oh, I can’t talk about it. She was nice. Frank meant to marry her--that I know.” “One means so much,” said Arthur. “My dear fellow, don’t attempt to be cynical. You make a poor hand of it; and really I know that he did mean to. But, as my mother pointed out, that is no excuse.” Arthur was silent a moment. “I apologize,” he said; “I am sure you are right. I have an idea--no, never mind. Have some whisky.” They sat smoking for a spell without speech. “You ought to be awfully happy here,” said Jack, at length. “You have a charming house, and nothing particular to do. How I wish I had been born a loafer. I have great inclinations that way, but no gift at all. The real loafer is born, not made. I am always wanting to settle down, or finish up, or get to work.” “I want none of these things,” said Arthur, with conviction. “Settling down, I suppose, means marrying. Are you going to marry, by the way?” “I am going to do everything that there is to be done,” said Jack, “and after that I shall find more things to do.” “And all this in the near future?” he asked. “You ask as many questions as Miss Fortescue,” said Jack. “I am in dread of appearing well informed, so I shall not answer them.” “Don’t. As soon as I know the answer to a question I lose all interest in it.” “It’s lucky, then, that you have still so many questions,” observed Jack. “By the way, your sister did not mind about the picture, did she? She set me so thoroughly at my ease about it that until this evening it really never occurred to me that she easily might.” “No, I’m sure she didn’t,” said Arthur. “Good. I shall go to bed. When is breakfast?” Arthur got up and lit a couple of candles. “Breakfast is when you come down,” he said. “We bind ourselves to nothing.” CHAPTER XII