Felix gave his light laugh. 'My dear uncle, is there any doubt about its being a pleasure? C'est de son age, as they say in France.'
'I should have said rather it was a vice of later life—of disappointed old age.'
Felix glanced at his uncle, with his lifted eyebrows, and then, 'Of what are you speaking?' he demanded, smiling.
'Of the situation in which Clifford was found.'
'Ah, he was found—he was caught?'
'Necessarily, he was caught. He could n't walk; he staggered.'
'Oh,' said Felix, 'he drinks! I rather suspected that, from something I observed the first day I came here. I quite agree with you that it is a low taste. It 's not a vice for a gentleman. He ought to give it up.'
'We hope for a good deal from Mr. Brand's influence,' Mr. Wentworth went on. 'He has talked to him from the first. And he never touches anything himself.'
'I will talk to him—I will talk to him!' Felix declared, gayly.
'What will you say to him?' asked his uncle, with some apprehension.
Felix for some moments answered nothing. 'Do you mean to marry him to his cousin?' he asked at last.
'Marry him?' echoed Mr. Wentworth. 'I should n't think his cousin would want to marry him.'
'You have no understanding, then, with Mrs. Acton?'
Mr. Wentworth stared, almost blankly. 'I have never discussed such subjects with her.'
'I should think it might be time,' said Felix. 'Lizzie Acton is admirably pretty, and if Clifford is dangerous....'
'They are not engaged,' said Mr. Wentworth. 'I have no reason to suppose they are engaged.'
'Par exemple!' cried Felix. 'A clandestine engagement? Trust me, Clifford, as I say, is a charming boy. He is incapable of that. Lizzie Acton, then, would not be jealous of another woman.'
'I certainly hope not,' said the old man, with a vague sense of jealousy being an even lower vice than a love of liquor.
'The best thing for Clifford, then,' Felix propounded, 'is to become interested in some clever, charming woman.' And he paused in his painting, and, with his elbows on his knees, looked with bright communicativeness at his uncle. 'You see, I believe greatly in the influence of women. Living with women helps to make a man a gentleman. It is very true Clifford has his sisters, who are so charming. But there should be a different sentiment in play from the fraternal, you know. He has Lizzie Acton; but she, perhaps, is rather immature.'
'I suspect Lizzie has talked to him, reasoned with him,' said Mr. Wentworth.
'On the impropriety of getting tipsy—on the beauty of temperance? That is dreary work for a pretty young girl. No,' Felix continued; 'Clifford ought to frequent some agreeable woman, who, without ever mentioning such unsavory subjects, would give him a sense of its being very ridiculous to be fuddled. If he could fall in love with her a little, so much the better. The thing would operate as a cure.'
'Well, now, what lady should you suggest?' asked Mr. Wentworth.
'There is a clever woman under your hand. My sister.'
'Your sister—under my hand?' Mr. Wentworth repeated.
'Say a word to Clifford. Tell him to be bold. He is well disposed already; he has invited her two or three times to drive. But I don't think he comes to see her. Give him a hint to come—to come often. He will sit there of an afternoon, and they will talk. It will do him good.'
Mr. Wentworth meditated. 'You think she will exercise a helpful influence?'
'She will exercise a civilizing—I may call it a sobering—influence. A charming, clever, witty woman always does—especially if she is a little of a coquette. My dear uncle, the society of such women has been half my education. If Clifford is suspended, as you say, from college, let Eugenia be his preceptress.'
Mr. Wentworth continued thoughtful. 'You think Eugenia is a coquette?' he asked.
'What pretty woman is not?' Felix demanded in turn. But this, for Mr. Wentworth, could at the best have been no answer, for he did not think his niece pretty. 'With Clifford,' the young man pursued, 'Eugenia will simply be enough of a coquette to be a little ironical. That 's what he needs. So you recommend him to be nice with her, you know. The suggestion will come best from you.'
'Do I understand,' asked the old man, 'that I am to suggest to my son to make a—a profession of—of affection to Madame Munster?'
'Yes, yes—a profession!' cried Felix sympathetically.
'But, as I understand it, Madame Munster is a married woman.'
'Ah,' said Felix, smiling, 'of course she can't marry him. But she will do what she can.'
Mr. Wentworth sat for some time with his eyes on the floor; at last he got up. 'I don't think,' he said, 'that I can undertake to recommend my son any such course.' And without meeting Felix's surprised glance he broke off his sitting, which was not resumed for a fortnight.
Felix was very fond of the little lake which occupied so many of Mr. Wentworth's numerous acres, and of a remarkable pine grove which lay upon the further side of it, planted upon a steep embankment and haunted by the summer breeze. The murmur of the air in the far off tree-tops had a strange distinctness; it was almost articulate. One afternoon the young man came out of his painting-room and passed the open door of Eugenia's little salon. Within, in the cool dimness, he saw his sister, dressed in white, buried in her arm-chair, and holding to her face an immense bouquet. Opposite to her sat Clifford Wentworth, twirling his hat. He had evidently just presented the bouquet to the Baroness, whose fine eyes, as she glanced at him over the big roses and geraniums, wore a
