"Of course, my dear fellow, of course; I don't doubt that for a moment. But--er--you won't think me mercenary if I ask you to be--in short--more definite. I speak most disinterestedly, purely out of consideration for my daughter's future." Allingford frowned slightly as Carrington's prophecy came back to him. His prospective father-in-law was quite within his rights in speaking as he did, but why couldn't he have left it at least till to-morrow? "Would a copper-mine do?" he said, looking up. "I'd give her a copper-mine." "Really, I don't know what to say," replied Sir Peter, in some perplexity. "I'm quite ignorant of such matters. Are--er--copper-mines valuable?" "The one I'm thinking of has been worth a quarter of a million since it started, and we have only begun to work it," replied the Consul. "Bless my soul!" ejaculated his host. "You don't say so! Do you go in much for that sort of thing?" "Yes, I've quite a number." "Dear me!" said Sir Peter dreamily, "a quarter of a million." Then waking up he added: "But I'm forgetting the time. My dear Allingford--er--your Christian name escapes me." "Robert, Sir Peter." "Thanks. I was going to say, my dear Robert, that you must go upstairs and see mamma." CHAPTER II IN WHICH THE CONSUL LOSES A RELATIVE AND GAINS A WIFE When Robert Allingford entered the smoking-room of his club, one afternoon early in October, he was genuinely glad to find that it had but one occupant, and that he was Harold Scarsdale. The two men had met each other for the first time at a house-party some eighteen months before, and their acquaintance had ripened into true friendship. "Hello!" he cried, accosting that gentleman. "You're enjoying to the full your last hours of bachelor bliss, I see." "Speak for yourself," replied Scarsdale, who looked extremely bored. "You're also on the dizzy brink." "It's a fact," admitted the Consul; "we are both to be married to-morrow. But that is all the more reason why we should make the most of our remaining freedom. You look as glum as if you'd lost your last friend. Come, cheer up, and have something to drink." "They say," remarked the Englishman as he acquiesced in the Consul's suggestion, "that a man only needs to be married to find out of how little importance he really is; but I've been anticipating my fate. Miss Vernon's rooms are a wilderness of the vanities of life, and here I am, banished to the club as a stern reality." "Quite so," replied the American. "I'm in the same box. The dressmakers have driven me clean out of Belgrave Square. But you, you really have my sympathy, for you are to marry one of my countrywomen, and they are apt to prove rather exacting mistresses at times like these." "Oh, I'm fairly well treated," said Scarsdale; "much better than I deserve, I dare say. How is it with you?"