George Caresfoot did not even look a gentleman, whereas Philip
certainly did.

"You don't seem very well, George. I am afraid that your travels have
not agreed with you."

"My dear Philip," answered his cousin, in a languid and affected
voice, "if you had lived the life that I have for the last twenty
years, you would look a little knocked up. I have had some very good
times; but the fact is, that I have been too prodigal of my strength,
not thought enough about the future. It is a great mistake, and one of
the worst results is that I am utterly _blase_ of everything; even _la
belle passion_ is played out for me. I haven't seen a woman I care
twopence about for ten years."

"Ah! you should sell this place, and take a house in town; it would
suit you much better."

"I can do that without selling the place. I don't intend to sell the
place--in fact, nothing would induce me to do so. Some day I may
marry, and want to transmit it to some future Caresfoot; but I confess
I don't mean to do that just yet. Marry when you want a nurse, but
never before; that's my maxim. Marriage is an excellent institution
for parsons and fools, the two classes that Providence has created to
populate the world; but a wise man should as soon think of walking
into a spring-trap. Take your own case, for instance, my dear Philip;
look what marriage led to."

"At any rate," answered his cousin, bitterly, "it led to your
advantage."