“I don’t know. You see,” Mr. Maturin rose to explain seriously, “these things get awfully entangled. To-night, as you saw, the cards ran very badly against me. And as I came away from the place I was so annoyed with myself that I emptied my pockets of the last penny I had. I was intending to begin life entirely afresh from to-morrow. With your daughter, madam, if I may say so. For I am like any other Englishman, Sir Guy, very sentimental about money when I haven’t any and not in the least romantic about it when I have. And so I thought I wouldn’t bring the taint of what money I had to my life with Joan. You must allow me, Sir Guy, and you, Mrs. de Gramercy, to respect and love Joan.” “And I almost believe you do!” said Sir Guy savagely. “After your fashion. But fashions change, Mr. Maturin.” “And so do the moon, the stars, the clouds and dancing; yet, let’s face it, they are eternal and everlasting. Sir Guy, I would wish to marry your granddaughter if she were penniless. Why should I not marry her because she is not penniless? What is this spurious humbug about honour that covers the middle and upper classes of England like verdigris: that a poor man may not with honour marry a rich woman, that a poor girl can only “sell” herself to a rich man? Can a man or woman not be loved, then, because he or she is rich? Is that what our religion means when it says that a rich man shall not enter the kingdom of heaven? Was it for that, then, that the late Charles Garvice devoted his life?” “A moment!” Sir Guy begged wearily. “I am to understand from this rigmarole that you hold Joan to her promise?” “Mr. Maturin, please!” sighed, as though involuntarily, the voice from the shadows. Mr. Maturin lit another cigarette and inhaled it. “Wasn’t Joan,” he asked, “at all swayed by your arguments against me? They must have been cogent enough, I fancy.” “Like the boy,” Sir Guy said with sudden gentleness, “she defended you. You have some magic for youth, it seems. They admit your faults, but do not hold them against your character. But I have observed that it takes grown-up people to condemn caddishness. Children will overlook it.” “True,” said Mr. Maturin. “You see, Sir Guy, children like people for what they are, not for what they do.” He turned to the dim lady. “I fancy,” he said, “that you have both got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I mean, don’t you see, that it’s not really much use persuading me to give Joan up. I mean, it wouldn’t be much use if I did.” “How, sir!” “Mr. Maturin, I don’t quite understand.” “Well, let’s face it, we must persuade her to give me up. Otherwise,” said Mr. Maturin with an air of conviction, “if I were to break my promise to her she would guess that it was at your persuasion--you might indeed insinuate that you had paid me off, but she wouldn’t believe it--and you would be faced for the rest of your days by an accusing girl. And that would be beastly for you.”