ould marry, I suppose,
as they want wives to do for them. And sometimes, no doubt, a man
must marry--when he has got to be very fond of a girl, and has
compromised himself, and all that kind of thing. I would never advise
any man to sully his honour." As Sir Anthony said this he raised
himself a little with his two sticks and spoke out in a bolder voice.
The voice however, sank again as he descended from the realms of
honour to those of prudence. "But none of these cases are yours,
Fred. To be sure you'll have the Perivale property; but that is
not a family estate, and you'll be much better off by turning it
into money. And in the way of comfort, you can be a great deal more
comfortable without a wife than you can with one. What do you want a
wife for? And then, as to Miss Amedroz,--for myself I must say that I
like her uncommonly. She has been very pleasant in her ways with me.
But,--somehow or another, I don't think you are so much in love with
her but what you can do without her." Hereupon he paused and looked
his son full in the face. Fred had also been thinking of the matter
in his own way, and asking himself the same question,--whether he was
in truth so much in love with Clara that he could not live without
her. "Of course I don't know," continued Sir Anthony, "what has taken
place just now between you and her, or what between her and your
mother; but I suppose the whole thing might fall through without
any further trouble to you,--or without anything unhandsome on your
part?" But Captain Aylmer still said nothing. The whole thing might,
no doubt, fall through, but he wished to be neither unjust nor
ungenerous,--and he specially wished to avoid anything unhandsome.
After a further pause of a few minutes, Sir Anthony went on again,
pouring forth the words of experience. "Of course marriage is all
very well. I married rather early in life, and have always found your
mother to be a most excellent woman. A better woman doesn't breathe.
I'm as sure of that as I am of anything. But God bless me,--of course
you can see. I can't call anything my own. I'm tied down here and I
can't move. I've never got a shilling to spend, while all these lazy
hounds about the place are eating me up. There isn't a clerk with a
hundred a year in London that isn't better off than I am as regards
ready money. And what comfort have I in a big house, and no end
of gardens, and a place like this? What pleasures do I get out of
it? That comes of