Recollecting that the last time he had seen the young fellow--shortly after dinner--the young fellow had been occupied in juggling, with every appearance of mental peace, two billiard-b.a.l.l.s and a box of matches, he broke off abruptly.

Molly looked at him.

"Father."

"My dear?"

"Why do you want me to marry Lord Dreever?"

He met the attack stoutly.

"I think he's a fine young fellow," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"He's quite nice," said Molly, quietly.

McEachern had been trying not to say it. He did not wish to say it.

If it could have been hinted at, he would have done it. But he was not good at hinting. A lifetime pa.s.sed in surroundings where the subtlest hint is a drive in the ribs with a truncheon does not leave a man an adept at the art. He had to be blunt or silent.

"He's the Earl of Dreever, my dear."

He rushed on, desperately anxious to cover the nakedness of the statement in a comfortable garment of words.

"Why, you see, you're young, Molly. It's only natural you shouldn't look on these things sensibly. You expect too much of a man. You expect this young fellow to be like the heroes of the novels you read. When you've lived a little longer, my dear, you'll see that there's nothing in it. It isn't the hero of the novel you want to marry. It's the man who'll make you a good husband."

This remark struck Mr. McEachern as so pithy and profound that he repeated it.

He went on. Molly was sitting quite still, looking into the shrubbery. He a.s.sumed she was listening; but whether she was or not, he must go on talking. The situation was difficult. Silence would make it more difficult.

"Now, look at Lord Dreever," he said. "There's a young man with one of the oldest t.i.tles in England. He could go anywhere and do what he liked, and be excused for whatever he did because of his name. But he doesn't. He's got the right stuff in him. He doesn't go racketing around--"

"His uncle doesn't allow him enough pocket-money," said Molly, with a jarring little laugh. "Perhaps, that's why."

There was a pause. McEachern required a few moments in which to marshal his arguments once more. He had been thrown out of his stride.

Molly turned to him. The hardness had gone from her face. She looked up at him wistfully.

"Father, dear, listen," she said. "We always used to understand each other so well!" He patted her shoulder affectionately. "You can't mean what you say? You know I don't love Lord Dreever. You know he's only a boy. Don't you want me to marry a man? I love this old place, but surely you can't think that it can really matter in a thing like this? You don't really mean, that about the hero of the novel? I'm not stupid, like that. I only want--oh, I can't put it into words, but don't you see?"

Her eyes were fixed appealingly on him. It only needed a word from him--perhaps not even a word--to close the gulf that had opened between them.

He missed the chance. He had had time to think, and his arguments were ready again. With stolid good-humor, he marched along the line he had mapped out. He was kindly and shrewd and practical; and the gulf gaped wider with every word.

"You mustn't be rash, my dear. You mustn't act without thinking in these things. Lord Dreever is only a boy, as you say, but he will grow. You say you don't love him. Nonsense! You like him. You would go on liking him more and more. And why? Because you could make what you pleased of him. You've got character, my dear. With a girl like you to look after him, he would go a long way, a very long way. It's all there. It only wants bringing out. And think of it, Molly!

Countess of Dreever! There's hardly a better t.i.tle in England. It would make me very happy, my dear. It's been my one hope all these years to see you in the place where you ought to be. And now the chance has come. Molly, dear, don't throw it away."

She had leaned back with closed eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept over her. She listened in a dull dream. She felt beaten. They were too strong for her. There were too many of them. What did it matter?

Why not give in, and end it all and win peace? That was all she wanted--peace now. What did it all matter?

"Very well, father," she said, listlessly.

McEachern stopped short.

"You'll do it, dear?" he cried. "You will?"

"Very well, father."

He stooped and kissed her.

"My own dear little girl," he said.

She got up.

"I'm rather tired, father," she said. "I think I'll go in."

Two minutes later, Mr. McEachern was in Sir Thomas Blunt's study.

Five minutes later, Sir Thomas pressed the bell.

Saunders appeared.

"Tell his lordship," said Sir Thomas, "that I wish to see him a moment. He is in the billiard-room, I think."

CHAPTER XVII

JIMMY REMEMBERS SOMETHING

The game between Hargate and Lord Dreever was still in progress when Jimmy returned to the billiard-room. A glance at the board showed that the score was seventy--sixty-nine, in favor of spot.

"Good game," said Jimmy. "Who's spot?"

"I am," said his lordship, missing an easy cannon. For some reason, he appeared in high spirits. "Hargate's been going great guns. I was eleven ahead a moment ago, but he made a break of twelve."

Lord Dreever belonged to the cla.s.s of billiard-players to whom a double-figure break is a thing to be noted and greeted with respect.

"Fluky," muttered the silent Hargate, deprecatingly. This was a long speech for him. Since their meeting at Paddington station, Jimmy had seldom heard him utter anything beyond a monosyllable.

"Not a bit of it, dear old son," said Lord Dreever, handsomely.

"You're coming on like a two-year-old. I sha'n't be able to give you twenty in a hundred much longer."

He went to a side-table, and mixed himself a whiskey-and-soda, singing a brief extract from musical comedy as he did so. There could be no shadow of doubt that he was finding life good. For the past few days, and particularly that afternoon, he had been rather noticeably ill at ease. Jimmy had seen him hanging about the terrace at half-past five, and had thought that he looked like a mute at a funeral. But now, only a few hours later, he was beaming on the world, and chirping like a bird.

The game moved jerkily along. Jimmy took a seat, and watched. The score mounted slowly. Lord Dreever was bad, but Hargate was worse.

At length, in the eighties, his lordship struck a brilliant vein.

When he had finished his break, his score was ninety-five. Hargate, who had profited by a series of misses on his opponent's part, had reached ninety-six.

"This is shortening my life," said Jimmy, leaning forward.