“The—­old—­curmudgeon!” cried Lady Blanchemain, astounded, and fiercely scanning her words.

“No,” returned John, soothingly, “he isn’t a curmudgeon.  But he’s a very peculiar man.  He’s a Spartan, and he lacks imagination.  It has simply never entered his head that I could need an allowance.  And, if you come to that, I can’t say that I positively do.  I have a tiny patrimony—­threepence a week, or so—­enough for my humble necessities, though scarcely perhaps enough to support the state of a future peeress.  No, my uncle isn’t a curmudgeon; he’s a very fine old boy, of whom I’m immensely proud, and though I’ve yet to see the colour of his money, we’re quite the best of friends.  At any rate, you’ll agree that it would be the deuce to pay if I were to fall in love.

“Ffff,” breathed Lady Blanchemain, fanning.  “What did I say of an age of prose and prudence?  Yet you don’t look cold-blooded.  What does money matter? Dominus providebit.  Go read Browning.  What’s ’the true end, sole and single’ that we’re here for?  Besides, have you never heard that there are such things as marriageable heiresses in the world?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that,” John cheerfully assented.  “But don’t they almost always squint or something?  I’ve heard, too, that there are such things as tufted fortune-hunters, but theirs is a career that requires a special vocation, and I’m afraid I haven’t got it.”

“Then you’re no true Marquis of Carabas,” the lady took him smartly up.

“You’ve found me out—­I’m only a faux-marquis,” he laughed.

“Thrrr!” breathed Lady Blanchemain, and for a little while appeared lost in thought.  By-and-by she got up and went to the window, and stood looking out.  “I never saw a lovelier landscape,” she said, musingly.  “With the grey hills, and the snow-peaks, and the brilliant sky, with the golden light and the purple shadows, and the cypresses and olives, with the river gleaming below there amongst the peach-blossoms, and—­isn’t that a blackcap singing in the mimosa?  It only needs a pair of lovers to be perfect—­it cries for a pair of lovers.  And instead of them, I find—­what?  A hermit and celibate.  Look here.  Make a clean breast of it. Are you cold-blooded?” she asked from over her shoulder.

John merely giggled.

“It would serve you right,” said she, truculently, “if some one were to rub your eyes with love-in-idleness, to make you dote upon the next live creature that you see.”

John merely chuckled.

“I’ll tell you what,” she proceeded, “I’m a bit of an old witch, and I’ll risk a soothword.  As there isn’t already a woman, there’ll shortly be one—­my thumbs prick.  The stage is set, the scene is too appropriate, the play’s inevitable.  It was never in the will of Providence that a youth of your complexion should pass the springtime in a spot all teeming with romance like this, and miss a love