"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.




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