“Come,” said Stanistreet, “you are a gentleman, you know.  At any rate, you’re about the only fellow in these parts who can stand a frock-coat and topper—­that’s the test.  I saw Morley, your big man, going into church yesterday, and he looked as if he’d just sneaked out of the City on a ’bus.  But you always knew how to dress yourself.  The instinct is hereditary.”

Louis had just made a brilliant series of cannons, and was marking fifty to his score.  If he had not been so absorbed in his game, he would have seen that Tyson was angry; and Tyson when he was angry was not at all nice to see.

He made himself very stiff as he answered, “Whether I’m a gentleman or not I can’t say.  It’s an abstruse question.  But I’ve got the girl on my side, which is a point in my favor; I have the weighty support of my mamma-in-law elect; and—­the prejudices of papa I shall subdue by degrees.”

“By degrees?  What degrees?” Again the question was unkind.  It referred to a phase of Tyson’s university career which he least liked to look back upon.

“And how about Mrs. Hathaway?”

“Damn Mrs. Hathaway,” said Tyson.

“Poor lady, isn’t she sufficiently damned already?”

The twinkle came back into Tyson’s eyes, but there was gloom in the rest of his face.  The twinkle was lost upon Stanistreet.  He knew too much; and the awkward thing was that Tyson never could tell exactly how much he knew.  So he wisely dropped the subject.

Stanistreet certainly knew a great deal; but he was the last man in the world to make a pedantic display of his knowledge; and Mr. Wilcox’s prejudices remained the only obstacle to Tyson’s marriage.  It was one iron will against another, and the battle was long.  Mr. Wilcox had the advantage of position.  He simply retreated into his library as into a fortified camp, intrenching himself behind a barricade of books, and refusing to skirmish with the enemy in the open.  And to every assault made by his family he replied with a violent fit of coughing.  A well-authenticated lung-disease is a formidable weapon in domestic warfare.

At last he yielded.  Not to time, nor yet to Tyson, nor yet to his wife’s logic, but to the importunities of his lung-disease.  Other causes may have contributed; he was a man of obstinate affections, and he had loved his daughter.

It was considered right that the faults of the dead (his unreasonable obstinacy, for instance) should be forgiven and forgotten.  Death seemed to have made Mrs. Wilcox suddenly familiar with her incomprehensible husband.  She was convinced that whatever he had thought of it on earth, in heaven, purged from all mortal weakness, Mr. Wilcox was taking a very different view of Molly’s engagement.

He died in March, and Tyson married Molly in the following May.  The bride is reported to have summed up the case thus:  “Bad?  I daresay he is.  I’m not marrying him because he is good; I’m marrying him because he’s delightful.  And I’m every bit as bad as he is, if they only knew.”