n it to her. After all, there was a distinguished precedent.

"Come into the bath-room a moment," I said, and I led the way.

She followed, wondering.

"What is that?" I asked, pointing to a blue thing on the floor.

"The bath-mat," she said, surprised.

"And what is written on it?"

"Why--'bath-mat,' of course."

"Of course," I said ... and I handed her the wedding-ring.

VI. A FEW GUESTS

BAD LORD BLIGHT

_(A Moral Story for the Middle-aged)_

I

Seated in the well-appointed library of Blight Hall, John Blighter,
Seventeenth Earl of Blight, bowed his head in his hands and gave himself
up to despair. The day of reckoning had come.

Were appearances not so deceptive, one would have said that Lord Blight
("Blight," as he was known familiarly to his friends) was a man to be
envied. In a revolving book-case in the middle of the spacious library
were countless treasured volumes, including a complete edition of
Thackeray; outside in the well-kept grounds of the estate was a new
lawn-mower; a bottle of sherry, freshly uncorked, stood upon the
sideboard in the dining-room. But worldly possessions are not everything.
An untroubled mind, as Shakespeare knew (even if he didn't actually say
it), is more to be valued than riches. The seventeenth Earl of Blight's
mind was not untroubled. His conscience was gnawing him.

Some people would say, no doubt, that his conscience was too sensitive.
True, there were episodes in his past life of which in later years he
could not wholly approve; but is not this the case with every one of us?
Far better, as must often have occurred to Milton, to strive for the
future than to regret the past. Ten years ago Lord Blight had been plain
John Blighter, with no prospects in front of him. Realizing that he could
expect little help from others, he decided to push for himself. He began
by pushing three cousins over the cliffs at Scarborough, thus becoming
second heir to the earldom. A week later he pushed an elder brother over
the same cliff, and was openly referred to in the Press as the next
bearer of the title. Barely a fortnight had elapsed before a final push
diverted the last member of the family (a valued uncle) into the
ever-changing sea, the venue in this case being Whitby, presumably in
order to avoid suspicion.

But all this had happened ten years ago. The past is the past, as
Wordsworth probably said to Coleridge more than once. It was time for
Lord Blight to fo