It was not the melancholy side of the event which appealed to Lascelles. He was now head of the family, and the importance of that position filled his thoughts to the comparative exclusion of any mere personal grief. A peer of the realm was not as other men. The King was dead, long live the King—and the King in the hour of coming to his own had no time for vulgar indulgence in mere emotion. Three days after the funeral, he explained his wishes in regard to myself. "Ferdinand, I wish to go into things with you," he said, with quite gracious condescension, having carried me to the study. "I am afraid I haven’t many things worth going into at all, Lascelles," said I. "The father had prepared me for his will. There is a thousand pounds for me, three hundred a year for Mercy—her own fortune, of course—and the rest for the title. I don’t complain in the least, and my worst wish is that you may make that good marriage as soon as decency permits. How go matters with Mrs. Curwen?" But this carrying the war into his own country did not accord at all with his point of view. He wished to dictate to me about my affairs, not to listen to me about his; and after fidgetting uneasily, he replied— "You go very fast, Ferdinand, and I’m sure that in diplomacy you will not find it advantageous to do that. Things are a great deal changed since you left London." "Alas, yes. It’s a way that death has." "I hope you don’t mean that for flippancy, but it sounds like it." "My dear Lascelles, a long face, a chronic groan, and the white of one’s eyes are not essential to real grief." "Well, it sounded flippant, and it jarred—jarred very much. I have felt very keenly the father’s death, although, of course, the duties of my new position have compelled me to face the world with—with a due rigidity of demeanour." "What was it you were going to say about change?" "Well, in point of fact I—er—I was referring to—to a match that concerned you as much as myself. Of course I can’t do more for you than—than the will provides, and I am glad you recognise that; but there is one thing I can do—and perhaps I ought to do it now—and it will be of great, indeed of the greatest consequence to you." It was so unlike him to beat nervously about a subject in this way, that I watched him in speculative surprise. "I think, you know, that you might—that in point of fact you ought to make a wealthy marriage; and I believe that such a thing is quite open to you." What was he driving at? "Isn’t it a bit early to talk of this?" I suggested. "Under other circumstances, perhaps, it might be," he said, speaking without hesitation now that he was well under weigh; "but as it must affect your plans and movements a good deal, I have thought it desirable to broach the matter at once. I think you ought not to return to Madrid, but to remain here in London in pursuance of this object."