woman who has an irritating way of speaking in Italics. "Are you
aware that if you have no son the title will become extinct?"

"And if it does," I cried, "who on this earth will care a
half-penny-bun?"

I am growing tired of the title. At first it was rather amusing.
Now it appears it is registered in Heaven's chancery and hedged
about with divine ordinances. Only the other day an unknown
parson requested me to open a church bazaar, and I gathered he
had received his instructions direct from the Almighty.

"Why, every one would care," exclaimed my aunt, genuinely
shocked. "It would be monstrous. You owe it to your descendants
as well as to your ancestors. Besides," she added, with apparent
irrelevance, "a man in your position ought to live up to it."

"I do," said I, "just up to it."

"Now you are pretending you don't understand me. You ought to
marry money!"

I smiled and shook my head. I don't think my aunt likes me to
smile and shake my head, for I saw a flicker in her eyes. "No,
my dear aunt; emphatically no. It would be comfortless. If I
kissed it, it would be cold. If I put my arms round it, it would
be full of sharp edges which would hurt. If I tried to get any
emotion out of it, it would only jingle."

"What do you want then?"