“I’m glad you’re back, Sam,” he said at length. “I want to have a talk with you. You know, it’s time you were settling down. I’ve been thinking about you while you were in America and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been letting you drift along. Very bad for a young man. You’re getting on. I don’t say you’re senile, but you’re not twenty-one any longer, and at your age I was working like a beaver. You’ve got to remember that life is—dash it! I’ve forgotten it again.” He broke off and puffed vigorously into the speaking tube. “Miss Milliken, kindly repeat what you were saying just now about life.... Yes, yes, that’s enough!” He put down the instrument. “Yes, life is real, life is earnest,” he said, gazing at Sam seriously, “and the grave is not our goal. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. In fact, it’s time you took your coat off and started work.” “I am quite ready, father.” “You didn’t hear what I said,” exclaimed Sir Mallaby, with a look of surprise. “I said it was time you began work.” “And I said I was quite ready.” “Bless my soul! You’ve changed your views a trifle since I saw you last.” “I have changed them altogether.” Long hours of brooding among the red plush settees in the lounge of the Hotel Magnificent at Bingley-on-the-Sea had brought about this strange, even morbid, attitude of mind in Samuel Marlowe. Work, he had decided, was the only medicine for his sick soul. Here, he felt, in this quiet office, far from the tumult and noise of the world, in a haven of torts and misdemeanours and Vic. I. cap. 3’s, and all the rest of it, he might find peace. At any rate, it was worth taking a stab at it. “Your trip has done you good,” said Sir Mallaby approvingly. “The sea air has given you some sense. I’m glad of it. It makes it easier for me to say something else that I’ve had on my mind for a good while. Sam, it’s time you got married.” Sam barked bitterly. His father looked at him with concern. “Swallow some smoke the wrong way?” “I was laughing,” explained Sam with dignity. Sir Mallaby shook his head. “I don’t want to discourage your high spirits, but I must ask you to approach this matter seriously. Marriage would do you a world of good, Sam. It would brace you up. You really ought to consider the idea. I was two years younger than you are when I married your poor mother, and it was the making of me. A wife might make something of you.” “Impossible!” “I don’t see why she shouldn’t. There’s lots of good in you, my boy, though you may not think so.” “When I said it was impossible,” said Sam coldly, “I was referring to the impossibility of the possibility.... I mean, that it was impossible that I could possibly ... in other words, father, I can never marry. My heart is dead.” “Your what?” “My heart.”