“My dear Marcus. At last! Didn’t you know I have been in town ever since Easter?” “No,” said I. “I am afraid I didn’t.” Which was true. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I would have asked you to dinner, but you will never come. As for At Home cards I never dream of sending them to you. It is a waste of precious half-penny stamps.” “You might have written me a nice little letter about nothing at all,” I suggested. “For you to say ‘What is that woman worrying me with her silly letters for?’ I know what you men are.” She looked arch. This is precisely what I should have said. As I am not an inventive liar, I could only smile feebly. I am never at my ease with Aunt Jessica. I am not the kind of person to afford her entertainment. I do not belong to her world of opulence, and if even I desired it, which the gods forbid, my means would not enable me to make the necessary display. My uncle, thinking to retrieve the fallen fortunes of the title, amassed enormous wealth as a company promoter, while I, on whom the title has descended, am perfectly contented with its fallen fortunes. I have scarcely a thought or taste in common with my aunt. In fact, I must bore her exceedingly. Yet she hides her boredom beneath a radiant countenance and leads me to understand that my society gives her inexpressible joy. I wonder why. She is always be-guide-philosopher-and-friending me. I resent it. A man of forty does not need the counsels of an elderly woman destitute of intellect. I believe there are some women who are firmly convinced that their sheer sex has imbued them with all the qualities of genius. To-day my aunt tackled me on the subject of marriage. I ought to marry. I asked why. It appeared it was every man’s duty. “From what point of view?” I asked. “The mere propagation of the human race, or the providing of a superfluous young woman with a means of livelihood? If it is the former, then, in my opinion, there are too many people in the world already; and if the latter, I’m afraid I’m not sufficiently altruistic.” “You are so _funny!_” laughed my aunt. I was not aware of being the least bit funny. “But, seriously,” she continued, “you _must_ marry.” She is a woman who has an irritating way of speaking in Italics. “Are you aware that if you have no son the title will become extinct?” “And if it does,” I cried, “who on this earth will care a half-penny-bun?” I am growing tired of the title. At first it was rather amusing. Now it appears it is registered in Heaven’s chancery and hedged about with divine ordinances. Only the other day an unknown parson requested me to open a church bazaar, and I gathered he had received his instructions direct from the Almighty. “Why, every one would care,” exclaimed my aunt, genuinely shocked. “It would be monstrous. You owe it to your descendants as well as to your ancestors. Besides,” she added, with apparent irrelevance, “a man in your position ought to live up to it.” “I do,” said I, “just up to it.”