“Years do not count, my boy,” said his father, majestically. “If you were ten years older and a weak, foolish fellow, it would be bad; but when it is a case of a young man who is bright, clever, and who has had some experience of the world, it is different.”

Mrs Wilton, who was listening intently to her husband’s words, bowed her head, smiled approval, and looked with the pride of a mother at her unlicked cub.

But Claud’s face wrinkled up, and he looked inquiringly at his elder.

“I say, guv’nor,” he said, “does this mean chaff?”

“Chaff? Certainly not, sir,” said the father sternly. “Do I look like a man who would descend to—to—to chaff, as you slangly term it, my own son?”

“Not a bit of it, dad; but last week you told me I was the somethingest idiot you ever set eyes on.”

“Claud!”

“Well, he did, mother, and he used that favourite word of his before it. You know,” said the youth, with a grin.

“Claud, my dear, you shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t, mother; it was the dad. I never do use it except in the stables or to the dogs.”

“Claud, my boy, be serious. Yes, I did say so, but you had made me very angry, and—er—I spoke for your good.”

“Yes, I’m sure he did, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton.

“Oh, all right, then, so long as he didn’t mean it. Well, then, to cut it short, you both want me to marry Kate?”

“Exactly.”

“Not much of a catch. Talk about a man’s wife being a clinging vine; she’ll be a regular weeping willow.”

“Ha! ha! very good, my boy,” said Wilton, senior; “but no fear of that. Poor girl, look at her losses.”

“But she keeps going on getting into deeper misery. Look at her.”

“It only shows the sweet tenderness of her disposition, Claud, my dear,” said his mother.

“Yes, of course,” said his father, “but you’ll soon make her dry her eyes.”

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