"And not one of them's the true love, Maurry. For if she were, faith, she'd not be one of fifty! Now, you take my advice, lad, and wait. Damme, we'll not spoil the family record!

"I don't know that it's true about the staid old age, though. Maybe 'tis only those who wed for love who acquire virtue. Anyway, you'll not break the second maxim, Maurry."

"Oh?" smiled Maurice. "What's to prevent me?"

Thomas had risen again. Now he slipped his arm in his brother's.

"If it comes to prevention, old sobersides, I'm game. I'll make an uproar in the church and carry off the bride. Gad, but 'twould be amusing! Carry off one's brother's bride, under his stern nose. Devil take it, Maurry, that's just what your nose is! I never thought on't before—stern, grim, old—now, steady, Tom, my boy, or you'll be laughing again with the old gentleman not yet underground!"

Maurice waited for his brother's mirth to abate.

"But, Tom, 'tis very well for you to counsel me not to wed without love! I must marry, for 'tis certain you'll not, and we must have heirs. What's to be done, I'd like to know?"

"Wait, lad, wait! You're not so old that you can't afford to hold back yet awhile."

"I'm thirty-five, Tom."

"Then you have fifteen years to run before you need settle down. Take my advice, and wait!"

The end of it was that Maurice did wait. For four years he continued to rove through Europe, amusing himself in the usual way of gentlemen of his day, but in 1729 he wrote a long letter from Paris to his brother in London, declaring himself in love, and the lady an angel of goodness, sweetness, amiability, and affection. He said much more in this vein, all of which Tom had to read, yawning and chuckling by turns. The lady was one Maria Marchant. She brought with her a fair dowry and a placid disposition. So Tom wrote off to Maurice at once, congratulating him, and bestowing his blessing on the alliance. He desired his dear old Maurry to quit travelling, and to come home to his affectionate brother Tom.

In a postscript he added that he dropped five hundred guineas at Newmarket, only to win fifteen hundred at dice the very next week, so that had it not been for his plaguey ill-luck in the matter of a small wager with Harry Besham, he would to-day be the most care-free of mortals, instead of a 

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