“Yes, that and other things,” Matthew admitted; “I have been a bit seedy lately. But I'll look after myself; don't fret. And I didn't come here to talk about my inside. I had to come up to town on business, so I thought I'd look in instead of writing. I haven't been waiting long. You see, your man has made me quite comfortable.” He pointed to a tray by his side with whisky, soda, and glasses, and a box of cigars. Sylvester poured himself out a drink and bit off the end of a cigar. “What's gone wrong?” he asked, striking a match. “This confounded marriage of Ella's.” “I wouldn't worry about it, father, if I were you. They are just worth one another. She has proved she's on his level by accepting him.” “Not at all, not at all,” said the old man. “That shows you know nothing of women. It is one of the most astounding facts about an astounding sex, that women of absolute refinement will throw themselves away upon the most obvious cad, be utterly blind to his coarseness, if once he gets a hold upon them. It's a kind of helpless infatuation. It doesn't at all argue the degeneration of the woman.” “Well, you can withhold your consent, and in the mean time try to open her eyes.” “I have already given my consent, and there are reasons why I can't open her eyes,” said Matthew, rather slowly, looking at his finger tips. Sylvester swung a straight-backed chair from its place and sat down near his father. “Then you are not going to interfere at all? Don't you think that is the best thing you can do? Let them work out their own salvation or damnation, as the case may be.” “I love Ella as my own daughter, Syl, and I would save her if I could.” “Then I don't understand,” said Sylvester. “Forgive my being impertinent, Syl, but this is a serious matter. Weren't you fond of Ella yourself, some time ago?” The eyes of father and son met, and the eyes of each were very keen. “I would rather not answer the question,” said Sylvester. “You needn't,” replied Matthew, taking a sip of his whisky and soda. There was a short silence. Sylvester smoked on, his glance fixed on his father's face, his mind more concerned with the traces of illness and suffering that he read there than with the subject under discussion. “Syl,” said the old man, at last, looking at his son, “we are neither of us sentimental people.” “I suppose we're not,” assented Sylvester, with a short laugh. “Good. So what I want to say to you is serious. You have been a good son to me. I've tried to do my duty by you. But I've never asked you to do a thing for my sake during the whole course of your life. Do you think I should be justified in starting now?” “It stands to reason,” said Sylvester. Matthew rose from his chair and put his hand on his son's shoulder. With all the tenderness of his heart, he was a man singularly little given to outward demonstrations of affection.