Clarence shrugged his superbly-modelled shoulders in silence.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Rackstraw, “you wouldn’t let a little private difference like that influence you in a really important thing like this football match, would you?”
“I would.”
“You would practically blackmail the father of the girl you love?”
“Every time.”
“Her white-haired old father?”
“The colour of his hair would not affect me.”
“Nothing would move you?”
“Nothing.”
“Then, by George, you’re just the son-in-law I want. You shall marry Isabel; and I’ll take you into partnership in my business this very day. I’ve been looking for a good able-bodied bandit like you for years. You make Captain Kidd look like a preliminary three-round bout. My boy, we’ll be the greatest combination, you and I, that the City has ever seen. Shake hands.”
For a moment Clarence hesitated. Then his better nature prevailed, and he spoke.
“Mr. Rackstraw,” he said, “I cannot deceive you.”
“That won’t matter,” said the enthusiastic old man. “I bet you’ll be able to deceive everybody else. I see it in your eye. My boy, we’ll be the greatest—”
“My name is not Jones.”
“Nor is mine. What does that matter?”
“My name is Tresillian. The Hon. Tresillian. I am the younger son of the Earl of Runnymede. To a man of your political views—”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” said Mr. Rackstraw. “What are political views compared with the chance of getting a goalkeeper like you into the family? I remember Isabel saying something to me about you, but I didn’t know who you were then.”
“I am a preposterous excrescence on the social cosmos,” said Clarence, eyeing him doubtfully.
“Then I’ll be one too,” cried Mr. Rackstraw. “I own I’ve set my face against it hitherto, but circumstances alter cases. I’ll ring up the Prime Minister on the ’phone to-morrow, and buy a title myself.”
Clarence’s last scruple was removed. Silently he gripped the old man’s hand, outstretched to meet his.
Little remains to be said, but I am going to say it, if it snows. I am at my best in these tender scenes of idyllic domesticity.
Four years have passed. Once more we are in the Rackstraw home. A lady is coming down the stairs, leading by the hand her little son. It is Isabel. The years have dealt lightly with her. She is still the same stately, beautiful creature whom I would have described in detail long ago if I had been given half a chance. At the foot of the stairs the child stops and points at a small, round object in a glass case.