"Merely my incessant speculation as to your future, my dear fellow,"
replied Howard, blandly. "Most fathers are ambitious for their sons,
and I should imagine that Sir Stephen would be extremely so. When a man
is simply a plain 'Mr.,' he longs for the 'Sir;' when he gets the
'Sir,' he wants the 'my Lord' for himself, or for his son and heir.
That is the worst of ambition: you can't satisfy it. I have no doubt in
my mind that at this very moment Sir Stephen is making for a peerage
for himself--or you. He can possibly gain his; but you, having no
brains to speak of--the fact that good-looking men are always deficient
in that respect is a continual and blessed consolation to us plain
ones, Staff--will have to make what the world calls a 'good marriage.'
Doubtless your father already has the future bride in his eye; the
daughter of a peer--high in the government, perhaps in the
cabinet--probably. Probably that is why he has asked you to meet him
here. I hope, for your sake, that she is good-looking. I
fancy"--musingly--"that you would be rather particular. If rumour does
you no injustice, you always have been."

Stafford laughed shortly.

"I've never thought about marrying," he said, rather absently.

"No one does, my dear fellow. It comes, like measles and other
unpleasant things, without thought; and when it comes, it is generally
as unpleasant. Aren't we going at a tremendous rate, Stafford? Don't
think I am nervous; I have ridden beside you too often for that. You
destroyed what nerve I possessed long ago."