"Michael," said the sire as they sat together in the evening.

"Father," said the junior partner.

"Two hundred thousand clear. She'll be a duchess!"

A sigh, like a current of air, flowed through the room.

"She deserves it, Michael--a sweet creature--a coronet might be proud of
her. Why don't you answer, Mike?"

"Father, she is an angel!"

"Pooh, pooh!"

"A heavenly creature!"

"I tell you what, Mike, if I were a royal duke, and you a prince, I should
be proud to have her for a daughter. But it is useless talking so. I sadly
fear that some designing rascal, without a shilling in his pocket, will
get her in his clutches, and, who knows, perhaps ruin the poor creature.
What rosy lips she has! You cunning dog, I saw you ogle them."

"Father!"

"You did, sir--don't deny it; and do you think I wonder at you, Mike?
Ain't I your father, and don't I know the blood? Come, go to bed, sir,
and forget it all."