He pulled himself together in some confusion. A generous wine, that Bollinger. He must be careful. He coughed. 'Are you--you aren't--are you--' Rollo paused. 'Are you thinking of getting married, uncle?' Mr Galloway's gaze was still on the ceiling. 'A great deal of nonsense,' he yelled severely, 'is talked about men lowering themselves by marrying actresses. I was a guest at a supper-party last night at which an actress was present. And a more charming, sensible girl I never wish to meet. Not one of your silly, brainless chits who don't know the difference between lobster Newburg and canvas-back duck, and who prefer sweet champagne to dry. No, sir! Not one of your mincing, affected kind who pretend they never touch anything except a spoonful of cold _consomme_. No, sir! Good, healthy appetite. Enjoyed her food, and knew why she was enjoying it. I give you my word, my boy, until I met her I didn't know a woman existed who could talk so damned sensibly about a _bavaroise au rhum_.' He suspended his striking tribute in order to relight his cigar. 'She can use a chafing-dish,' he resumed, his voice vibrating with emotion. 'She told me so. She said she could fix chicken so that a man would leave home for it.' He paused, momentarily overcome. '_And_ Welsh rarebits,' he added reverently. He puffed hard at his cigar. 'Yes,' he said. 'Welsh rarebits, too. And because,' he shouted wrathfully, 'because, forsooth, she earns an honest living by singing in the chorus of a comic opera, a whole bunch of snivelling idiots will say I have made a fool of myself. Let them!' he bellowed, sitting up and glaring at Rollo. 'I say, let them! I'll show them that Andrew Galloway is not the man to--to--is not the man--' He stopped. 'Well, anyway, I'll show them,' he concluded rather lamely. Rollo eyed him with fallen jaw. His liqueur had turned to wormwood. He had been fearing this for years. You may drive out Nature with a pitchfork, but she will return. Blood will tell. Once a Pittsburgh millionaire, always a Pittsburgh millionaire. For eleven years his uncle had fought against his natural propensities, with apparent success; but Nature had won in the end. His words could have no other meaning. Andrew Galloway was going to marry a chorus-girl. Mr Galloway rapped on the table, and ordered another kummel. 'Marguerite Parker!' he roared dreamily, rolling the words round his tongue, like port. 'Marguerite Parker!' exclaimed Rollo, bounding in his chair. His uncle met his eye sternly. 'That was the name I said. You seem to know it. Perhaps you have something to say against the lady. Eh? Have you? Have you? I warn you to be careful. What do you know of Miss Parker? Speak!' 'Er--no, no. Oh, no! I just know the name, that's all. I--I rather think I met her once at lunch. Or it may have been somebody else. I know it was someone.' He plunged at his glass. His uncle's gaze relaxed its austerity.