“There is no such a word as impossible,” retorted Brian, coolly, thinking of the famous remark in Richelieu, “Why should you refuse?  I am rich now.”

“Pshaw!” said Frettlby, rising impatiently.  “It’s not money I’m thinking about—­I’ve got enough for both of you; but I cannot live without Madge.”

“Then come with us,” said his daughter, kissing him.

Her lover, however, did not second the invitation, but stood moodily twisting his tawny moustache, and staring out into the garden in an absent sort of manner.

“What do you say, Fitzgerald?” said Frettlby, who was eyeing him keenly.

“Oh, delighted, of course,” answered Brian, confusedly.

“In that case,” returned the other, coolly, “I will tell you what we will do.  I have bought a steam yacht, and she will be ready for sea about the end of January.  You will marry my daughter at once, and go round New Zealand for your honeymoon.  When you return, if I feel inclined, and you two turtle-doves don’t object, I will join you, and we will make a tour of the world.”

“Oh, how delightful,” cried Madge, clasping her hands.  “I am so fond of the ocean with a companion, of course,” she added, with a saucy glance at her lover.

Brian’s face had brightened considerably, for he was a born sailor, and a pleasant yachting voyage in the blue waters of the Pacific, with Madge as his companion, was, to his mind, as near Paradise as any mortal could get.

“And what is, the name of the yacht?” he asked, with deep interest.

“Her name?” repeated Mr. Frettlby, hastily.  “Oh, a very ugly name, and one which I intend to change.  At present she is called the ‘Rosanna.’”

“Rosanna!”

Brian and his betrothed both started at this, and the former stared curiously at the old man, wondering at the coincidence between the name of the yacht and that of the woman who died in the Melbourne slum.

Mr Frettlby flushed a little when he saw Brian’s eye fixed on him with such an enquiring gaze, and rose with an embarrassed laugh.

“You are a pair of moon-struck lovers,” he said, gaily, taking an arm of each, and leading them into the house “but you forget dinner will soon be ready.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

ACROSS THE WALNUTS AND THE WINE.

Moore, sweetest of bards, sings—­

“Oh, there’s nothing half so sweet in life
As love’s young dream.”

But he made this assertion in his callow days, before he had learned the value of a good digestion.  To a young and fervid youth, love’s young dream is, no doubt, very charming, lovers, as a rule, having a small appetite; but to a man who has seen the world, and drunk deeply of the wine of life, there is nothing half so sweet in the whole of his existence as a good dinner.  “A hard heart and a good digestion will make any man happy.”  So said Talleyrand,