"There isn't another man or woman in the whole circle of my acquaintance," he declared, "who would have congratulated me on marrying Miss Dulane. I believe you would make allowances for me if I had committed murder.""I hope I should," **** answered gravely. "When a man is my friend--murder or marriage--I take it for granted that he has a reason for what he does. Wait a minute. You mustn't give me more credit than I deserve. I don't agree with you. If I were a marrying man myself, I shouldn't pick an old maid--I should prefer a young one. That's a matter of taste. You are not like me. _You_ always have a definite object in view. I may not know what the object is. Never mind! I wish you joy all the same."Beaucourt was not unworthy of the friendship he had inspired. "Ishould be ungrateful indeed," he said, "if I didn't tell you what my object is. You know that I am poor?""The only poor friend of mine," **** remarked, "who has never borrowed money of me."Beaucourt went on without noticing this. "I have three expensive tastes," he said. "I want to get into Parliament; I want to have a yacht; I want to collect pictures. Add, if you like, the selfish luxury of helping poverty and wretchedness, and hearing my conscience tell me what an excellent man I am. I can't do all this on five hundred a year--but I can do it on forty times five hundred a year. Moral: marry Miss Dulane."Listening attentively until the other had done, **** showed a sardonic side to his character never yet discovered in Beaucourt's experience of him.
