"Well, old St. George, it seems, sent for me to induce me to marry some 'Clara Vere de Vere,' in order to secure the sacred title and acres from falling into the hands of a half-breed inheritor. However, though I would not acknowledge his suzerainty by giving him the promise he wanted, he may be tolerably sure I would never marry a second-rate woman. I do not mean to say I care for rank, but good blood is essential." "I do not fancy you are much of a marrying man." "No! not at present. I shall come to it some day. I have been too busy to have had an attack of the love-fever for a long time." "You were badly hit in that affair with Lady Mary," observed Moncrief. "Well--yes! But I made a rapid recovery. Then, matrimony would be a different matter. In short, if Lord St. George will just give me a year or two more of liberty, I dare say I shall be ready to present him with a bride of the desired pattern. I really have no democratic proclivities." "Ah ha, lad!" said Moncrief, in his unmistakable Scotch tones, "you must just 'dree your weird.'" "So must every one," returned Wilton, rising to fill his cigar-case from a box that stood upon the sideboard. "But I think I have survived the spooney period, and have sown my wild oats--not that I have had more than a mere handful to dispose of. On the whole, I have been a pattern man--eh, old fellow?" "Hum! There have been more extensive crops," returned the major, doubtfully. "Still, do not be too sure of yourself." "Oh, I am safe enough. And, besides," he continued, returning to the table and filling his glass, "I am very particularly anxious that Lord St. George should leave me something wherewith to regild the faded honors of his ancient peerage. I confess to a mortal dread of being a poor peer. If my old kinsman does not leave me his property, I will never adopt the title, but be plain 'Ralph Wilton' to the end of the chapter." "You might do worse," said Moncrief, dryly. "As I said before, you must 'dree your weird.'" "Halloa!" cried Wilton, suddenly; "half-past seven, by Jove! I shall have a close shave to catch the train!" He rang the bell, ordered a cab; hastily donning his overcoat and thrusting his cigar-case into the breast-pocket, he shook hands heartily with his friend. "Good-by, old fellow; come as soon as you can, and let the moorland breeze sweep the cobwebs from your brain. You are too solemn by half for so good a comrade--good-by!"