Farmer?"

Maurice shuddered.

"Spare me. I had thought of Marianne Tempest."

"What, old Castlehill's daughter? She'd kill you in a month, lad."

"But she is not—dowerless."

"No. But think of it, Maurry! Think of it! A shrew at twenty!"

"Then what do you think of Jane Butterfield?"

Thomas pulled at his lip, irresolute.

"I'm not decrying the girl, Maurice, but Lord! could you live with her?"

"I've not essayed it," answered Maurice.

"No, and marriage is so damned final! 'Tisn't as though ye could live together for a month or so before ye made up your minds. I doubt the girl would not consent to that."

"And if she did consent, one would not desire to wed her," remarked Maurice. "A pity. No, I believe I could not live with Jane."

Thomas sat down again.

"The truth of it is, Maurry, we Jettans must marry for love. There's not one of us ever married without it, whether for money or no."

"'Tis so unfashionable," objected Maurice. "One marries for convenience. One may have fifty different loves."

"What! All at once? I think you'd find that a trifle inconvenient, Maurry! Lord! just fancy fifty loves, oh, the devil! And three's enough to drive one crazed, bruise me if 'tis not."

Maurice's thin lips twitched responsively.

"Gad no! Fifty loves spread over a lifetime, and you're not bound to one of them. There's bliss, Tom, you rogue!"

Thomas shook a wise finger at him, his plump, good-humoured face solemn all at once.

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