"Many men, at your age, have only started to live. Let the young ones go their ways--the next generation will take them, fast enough. You prefer a quiet existence--very well, have it; it will not interfere with them. You have been living to yourself so long, with but one idea, that you have become obsessed by it. Live now for your own enjoyment--forget all else." "When a man has lived his life for a single end, and, at sixty, has seen that end attained, there is not time to start with a new one. I am not morbid--on the contrary, I am supremely happy to have accomplished my life's aim, or nearly it. If I were convinced that my death is necessary to perfect success, I would be willing to die. That is what I mean, sir--that is what I hold to." "And that is why you have won out!" exclaimed Parkington. "You contemplated only success, never failure." "No, I never thought of failure," said Marbury; "it was not in the problem." There was silence for a time. Presently, the Englishman spoke. "Since you have honored me, thus far," he said, "I am, I hope, committing no impropriety if I ask one question." "Ask on, sir," replied Marbury, "I have told you what I have told no other--it will do no harm to tell you something more." "You spoke of marriage," said Parkington. "Has anything been--arranged, as to either?" "If you mean, have I picked out a mate for either?--no. And I think that they have not picked for themselves." "Miss Marbury is a particularly fine girl--she should have suitors in plenty." Marbury did not answer. "And young Mr. Marbury, as the future master of Hedgely Hall, if for nothing else, is a most desirable _parti_--and he is a mighty good fellow, besides." "I think I can trust them," said Marbury, quietly. "They may take their own time." And Parkington, fearing that he had gone a bit too far, made haste to change the subject. Marbury was a queer man, one of the peculiar temperament, likely, which, having no confidants and no intimates, will suddenly tell a life's secrets to a casual acquaintance, and then repent it forever after. True, he had not told him much that he could not have heard, any time, at the Coffee-house, but that made small difference. It was the telling which he would regret, the burst of confidence, that was foreign to his nature--and for which he was likely to hold Parkington responsible, or, at least, to distrust him, hereafter. And this did not chime with Parkington's idea. If he were going to pay court to the daughter, with any notion of matrimony, it were well not to have the father's ill will, especially, when it involved such a confession as he would have to make.