“The Wests didn’t amount to much now,” to quote an American lady. This conviction made Mr. West extremely wroth. People thought he was played-out. Whoever was particularly civil to him _now_ he took to his heart, and kept there. One evening Laurence made his way into the smoke-room, and stood looking on at the termination of a rather hard-fought rubber. His father-in-law was playing. He was, moreover, holding good cards, and in a state of high jubilation. His partner was Lord de la Crême. Could this trim, rather jaunty little man, holding the cards he was about to deal, and laughing a loud, rather forced laugh at one of his lordship’s good things--_i.e._ a very middling joke--be a terrible domestic autocrat? Who would believe it? But Laurence looked below the surface. That quick, fiery little eye, now beaming so brightly, told a tale that he could read. It spoke of choler, obstinacy, of restless ambition, self-seeking, and fury. Madeline, doubtless, knew the capabilities of that eye, and feared it. When the whist party had dissolved, and people were gone to their berths, Mr. West--who was always prepared to sit up--and Wynne were alone. “I suppose Madeline went below long ago? You have been looking after her as usual?” “Yes, I took her down.” “That’s all right”--pausing. “Then play a game of _écarté_. There’s another half-hour yet before lights-out.” “No, thanks. The fact is”--seating himself opposite, and squaring his arms on the table--“I want to have a few words with you.” “With _me_? Certainly, certainly”--with a momentary glance of surprise. “About those investments?” “No; it’s a more personal matter. You”--hesitating for a second--“have seemed to like me, Mr. West.” “Seemed! Why, I don’t know a single young fellow that I like as well. You are clever, you are good company, you are making yourself a name. I only wish I had a son like you!” CHAPTER XLII. WON ALREADY. “Then, what would you think of taking me for a son-in-law?” said Mr. Wynne, fixing his dark eyes steadily on the little man opposite to him, who was busily shuffling the cards. “Eh!” was his only reply for quite a long time--an “eh!” incredulous, indignant, and yet not wholly combative--a long, sonorous exclamation. “Personally I like you, Wynne--could not like you better; but”--and he paused--“Madeline is my only child; she is remarkably handsome--_was_, I should say for the present--and created quite a sensation in town. You are a very good fellow, and a gentleman, but don’t be offended if I confess that I am looking higher for her. I expect the man she marries to place a coronet on her head, and you must admit that she will grace it!” Laurence Wynne said nothing, merely nodded his assent, and his companion--who loved the sound of his own voice--resumed volubly.