"Do you really think so?" he asked anxiously. "Well, this little lark of hers--hang me, it's just what I should have enjoyed doing fifty years ago." "Ah--er--Lord--Thrapston, have you noticed the resemblance you speak of in any other way?" "That girl, except that she is a girl, is myself over again--myself over again." "The deuce!" "I beg your pardon, Calder; I grow hard of hearing." "Nothing. Lord Thrapston. Look here, Lord Thrapston----" "Well, well, my dear boy?" "Oh, nothing; that is--" "But she'll be all right in your hands, my boy. You must keep an eye; on her, don't you know: she'll need a bit o' driving; but I really don't see why you should come to grief. I don't, 'pon my soul. No. With tact on your part, you might very well pull through." "How d'ye mean tact, Lord Thrapston?" "Oh, amuse her. Let her travel; give her lots of society; don't bother her with domestic affairs. Don't let her feel she's under any obligation. That's what she kicks against. So do I; always did." Calder pulled his mustache. Lord Thrapston had briefly sketched the exact opposite of his ideal of married life. "The fact is," continued the old man, "the boy's an uncommon handsome boy. She can't resist that. No more can I; never could." There chanced to be a mirror opposite Calder, and he impartially considered himself. There was, he concluded, every prospect of Miss Glyn resisting any engrossing passion for him. "It's very good of you to have told, me all about it," he remarked, rising. "I'll think it over." "Yes, do. Of course, I admit she's given you a perfectly good reason for breaking off your engagement if you like. Mind that. We don't feel aggrieved, Calder. Act as you think best. We admit we're in the wrong, but we must stand by what we've done." "I shouldn't like to give her any pain--" "Pain! Oh, dear me, no, my dear boy. She won't fret. Make your mind easy about that."