tt was never a very patient woman.

"Let us take all your negative qualities for granted," she said curtly.
"I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us
confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you
have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment,
that you wish to see me about?"

"This marriage."

"What marriage?"

"Your son's marriage."

"My son is not married."

"No, but he's going to be. At eleven o'clock this morning at the Little
Church Round the Corner!"

Mrs. Hignett stared.

"Are you mad?"

"Well, I'm not any too well pleased, I'm bound to say," admitted Mr.
Mortimer. "You see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself!"

"Who is this girl?"

"Have been for years. I'm one of those silent, patient fellows who hang
around and look a lot but never tell their love...."

"Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?"

"I've always been one of those men who...."

"Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive
qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all.
You come to me with this absurd story...."

"Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her
maid."

"Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to
marry?"

"I don't know that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as one
desiring to be fair. "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such a
corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved her
for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is--somehow one never
seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the
summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I'm not one of these
smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not...."

"If you will kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone this
essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly
obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to
marry."

"Haven't I told you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. I
haven't. It's funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does.
I'm the sort of man...."

"What is her name?"

"... the sort of man who...."

"What is her name?"

"Bennett."

"Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The
red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house?"

"That's it. You're a great guesser. I think you ou