rather have seen you remain six months in Lewis before bringing her up
here."

Ingram was at least a candid friend. It was not the first nor the
hundredth time that Frank Lavender had to endure small lectures,
uttered in a slow, deliberate voice, and yet with an indifference
of manner which showed that Ingram cared very little how sharply his
words struck home. He rarely even apologized for his bluntness. These
were his opinions: Lavender could take them or leave them, as he
liked. And the younger man, after finding his face flush a bit on
being accused of wishing to make a dramatic impression with Sheila's
entrance into London society, laughed in an embarrassed way, and said,
"It is impossible to be angry with you, Ingram, and yet you do talk so
absurdly. I wonder who is likely to know more about the character of a
girl than her own husband?"

"You may in time: you don't now," said Ingram, carefully balancing a
biscuit on the point of his finger.

"The fact is," said Lavender with good-natured impatience, "you are
the most romantic card I know, and there is no pleasing you. You
have all sorts of exalted notions about things--about sentiments and
duties, and so forth. Well, all that is true enough, and would
be right enough if the world were filled with men and women like
yourself; but then it isn't, you see, and one has to give in to
conventionalities of dress and living and ceremonies, if one wants
to retain one's friends. Now, I like to see you going about with that
wide-awake--it suits your brown complexion and beard--and that stick
that would do for herding sheep; and the costume looks well and is
business-like and excellent when you're off for a walk over the Surrey