"Mac who? I see nothing Scotch in the offer. But if he were the living image of Robert Bruce or Robinson Crusoe, that's not the point. Now let's have it straight. Would you marry him in any case?" "Absolutely never," flashed Sylvia, showing all the celebrated family obstinacy by her beautiful set mouth, "I'd rather----" "Never mind what you'd rather. _I know_ what you'd rather, thanks very much. All right, you mean it. Cross him out. And now we know where we are." "But still I'm afraid ... you don't seem to think I ought to marry Mr. Woodville, do you?" "Not that exactly," said Savile. "But I think the man who's been making love to my sister ought to marry _her_. What's more, he's got to." "Oh, Savile, how can you! Don't you think he cares for me?" "Off the rails as usual! Yes, I do think so, but it doesn't matter a straw what my thoughts are. It matters what's going to be done." "But what can be done? Unless he goes away to Athens, I mean." "Great Scott!" exclaimed Savile, starting up. "What's the use of all his friends--Chetwode, and Mervyn, and Wilton, Vere and Broughton, and heaps more--if they can't get him something? A splendid chap like old Woodville! He was looked upon as a brilliant man at Balliol. I happen to know that--never mind how." She kissed him. "Do you think, then, that Arthur Mervyn would help him? I mean, do you think that Frank might go on the stage?" He looked at her quite anxiously, as though he thought her troubles had turned her brain. "Go on the _stage_! Go on _what_ stage? Oh, you'd like to see your husband prancing about like a painted mountebank with a chorus of leading ladies, would you?" "Oh no, indeed I shouldn't! But are leading ladies all dreadful? And I thought you were in love with a singer yourself," said Sylvia. Savile threw away his cigarette, with what he hoped was a hollow laugh. "My dear child, what I choose to do and what I allow my sister to do are two very different things." "I dare say they are, darling," said Sylvia mildly. "And, _please_ don't imagine for one moment that I suppose you ever do anything at all--I mean, that you oughtn't." "No, I shouldn't worry about _me_," said Savile. "We're talking about _your_ troubles.... As if Woodville were such an ass! Catch him going in for such rot!" He laughed. "Sylvia, do you suppose that he's stayed here in this hole," said Savile in a muffled undertone, looking round the exquisite room, and then repeating loudly and defiantly, "I say, in this _Hole_, except for you? Do you think he can't do anything better? Mind you, the Governor's fond of Woodville, it's only the cash and all that. If that idiot of an uncle of his hadn't married his housekeeper, it would have been all right." "Oh, Savile, fancy, I saw her once! She wore----" "Describe her dress some other day, dear, for Heaven's sake. What I say is that Woodville is the sort of man who could make his mark." "Do you think he could make a name by painting?" she asked eagerly.