orris Whitehouse,
Jack's uncle.

"What do you mean?" I asked, with a wrench at Pet's little hand which made
her wince.

"It's an engagement. Uncle and nephew engaged the same season. Isn't it
rich? Think of Louise King being my aunt. She is only twenty-three."

Then they saw us and bowed. I felt faint as my mind adjusted itself to
this new arrangement. I levelled my glass at them.

Louise, magnificently tall and handsome, looked quite self-contained. She
is one of the best-bred girls I know, but it required a stronger
imagination than mine to fathom what mysterious change had transformed
her from the impulsive, loving creature of Charlie Hardy's story to this
serene-eyed woman, who had deliberately elected to marry at the funeral
of her own heart.

As I looked across at her during that long evening, I felt that it was
impertinent to probe her heart with my wonderings and surmises. I knew
instinctively just how carefully she was hiding her hurt from all human
eyes. I knew how her fierce pride was bearing up under the cruelty of it.
I felt how she had rushed from the humiliation one man had brought her to
the waiting love of the one who should have been her first choice by the
divine right of natural selection. This strong man had loved her for
years, but he would never allow her to imperil either his dignity or her
own. He was just the man her impulsive, high-strung nature could accept as
a refuge, beat against and buffet if need be, then learn to appreciate and
cling to.

I had an impression that he was not totally ignorant of the state of
affairs. He was older and wiser than she, and capable of the bravery of
this venture. No, he was not being deceived. I was sure of it. Louise was
too high minded to attempt it. She would be scornfully honest with him.
Her scorn would be for herself, not for him, and he had accepted her
joyfully on these terms. His daring was tempered with prudence, and his
clear vision doubtless forecast the end. His insight must have shown him
that, with a girl like Louise, the rebound from the self-disdain to which
Charlie Hardy's confession must have reduced her would be as intense as
her humiliation had been, and that her passionate gratitude to the man who
restored her self-respect would be boundless. Not every man--not even
every man who loved her--could do this. He must possess strong nerves who
descends into a volcano. He must have a more unbending will who tames any
wild thing; but wha