Lord Florencecourt had made up his mind that a marriage between his favourite, George Lauriston, and one of his nieces would be an admirable arrangement, giving to the young officer the money which would do so much to forward his advancement in the world, and to one of the girls an honourable, manly husband, who might some day do great things. The match would, besides, strengthen the bonds of mutual friendship and liking between himself and the young man. It was one evening when the two men were driving in a hansom to dine at Sir Henry’s, that the elder broached the subject in his usual harsh, abrupt tone, but with a generous fire in his eyes, which showed the depth and the quality of his interest in the matter. Lauriston, taken by surprise, betrayed a reluctance, almost a repugnance, to the idea which filled the elder man with anger and disappointment. “I see,” said he, with a short dry laugh. “You have picked up with some pretty chorus-girl, and are not ready for matrimony.” “You are mistaken, Colonel, I assure you. I have picked up nobody. But it is hardly surprising if your constant jibes at love and matrimony should have taken root in me, who honour your opinions so much.” He spoke somewhat stiffly, because he had to choose his words, feeling rather guilty. Lord Florencecourt broke in brusquely: “All d----d nonsense! Jibes at love only take root in a young man to grow into intrigues. There’s an end of the matter; don’t refer to it again.” They were at their destination. Lord Florencecourt sprang from the hansom first, out of temper for the evening; Lauriston followed very soberly. Sir Henry’s town house was one of the big mansions of Grosvenor Square. It had a large dome-like arch over the entrance, and was painted a violent staring white, which made the smoke-begrimed houses on either side, with their rusty iron lamp-frames and antiquated extinguishers, quite a refreshing sight. The interior was furnished handsomely, in the prevailing upholsterer’s taste, without any distinguishing features; for Lady Millard, though she still cherished certain luxurious and unconventional notions which in her native country she would have indulged, was too much bound down by the prejudices of her present rank, to dare to infringe ever so little on the rules which governed the rest of her order. So that while she inwardly knew an indiarubber plant by itself in a bilious or livid earthenware vase to be an abomination, she had an indiarubber plant in a bilious yellow vase in front of her middle dining-room window, because the Countess of Redscar had one in a livid blue vase in hers. And in spite of her feeling that to strew a litter of natural flowers over a dinner-table, to fade and wither before one’s eyes in the heated air, is stupid, inconvenient, and ugly, she yielded to that, as she did to every passing fashion set by her higher-born neighbours.