The Marquis, after taking tea with Neaera and satisfying himself that the lady was not planning immediate flight, strolled back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. He enjoyed a little triumph over Mr. Blodwell and Sidmouth Vane at dinner; but this did not satisfy him. For almost the first time in his life, he felt the need of an adviser and confidant: he was afraid that he was going to make a fool of himself. Mr. Blodwell withdrew after dinner, to grapple with some papers which had pursued him, and the Marquis sat smoking a cigar on a seat with Vane, struggling against the impulse to trust that young man with his thoughts. Vane was placidly happy: the distant, hypothetical relations between himself and Neaera, the like of which his busy idle brain constructed around every attractive marriageable woman he met, had no power to disturb either his soul or his digestion. If it so fell out, it would be well; but he was conscious that the object would wring from him no very active exertions. "Mrs. Witt expected to find George here, I suppose?" he asked, flicking the ash from his cigar. "Yes, I think so." "Anything on there?" "Nothing at all, my dear fellow," replied the Marquis, with more confidence than he would have shown twelve hours before. "She knows he's mad about little Laura Pocklington." "I'll call on her to-morrow," said Vane, with his usual air of gracious condescension. "She's living very quietly," remarked the Marquis. Vane turned towards him with a smile and almost a wink. "Oho!" he said. "Be respectful to your elders, you young dog," said the Marquis. "You make us forget your claims in that respect. You must be more venerable," answered Vane. After a moment's silent smoking, "Why don't you marry?" asked the Marquis. It is a question which often means that the questioner's own thoughts are trending in that direction. "I'm waiting for that heiress." Then he added, perhaps out of good nature, "If it comes to that, why don't you?" "I'm not anxious to have people pointing at me for an old fool." "Oh, hang people! Besides, you're not old." "Fifty-six." "That's nothing nowadays." "You're laughing!" said the Marquis, suspiciously. "Upon my honour, no." The Marquis laughed too, and put his cigar back in his mouth. He took it out again almost at once. "It wouldn't be bad to have a son," he said. "I mean an heir, you know." "The first step is a wife then, no doubt." "Most women are so tedious. Still, you understand my feeling?" "I might in your position. For myself, I hate brats." "Ah, you will feel it some day." Vane thought this rather barefaced. "When did it attack you?" he asked with a smile. "This afternoon," answered the Marquis, gravely. Vane's cynical humour was tickled by the _dénoûment_ this admission suggested. "Gad! I should like to see Gerald Neston's face!" he chuckled, forgetting his own designs in his gratification. "Of course she's--well, the deuce of a flirt," said the Marquis.