it seemed like piling it up so, and
you take such a cold-blooded, unsympathetic view of these things."

"Perhaps I do; yes, I'm afraid I do. How far are you committed to Miss
Churchill?"

Jack cheered right up. "I'm all right there, at least. She hasn't
answered."

"Then you've asked?"

"Why, so I have; at least she may take it for something like asking. But
I don't care; I want to be committed there; I can't live without her;
she's the only----"

I saw that he was beginning to foam up again, so I shut him off straight
at the spigot. Told him to save it till after the ceremony. Set him down
to my desk, and dictated two letters, one to Edith Curzon and the other
to Mabel Moore, and made him sign and seal them, then and there. He
twisted and squirmed and tried to wiggle off the hook, but I wouldn't
give him any slack. Made him come right out and say that he was a yellow
pup; that he had made a mistake; and that the stuff was all off, though
I worded it a little different from that. Slung in some fancy words and
high-toned phrases.

You see, I had made up my mind that the best of a bad matter was the
Churchill girl, and I didn't propose to have her commit herself, too,
until I'd sort of cleared away the wreckage. Then I reckoned on
copper-riveting their engagement by announcing it myself and standing
over Jack with a shotgun to see that there wasn't any more nonsense.
They were both so light-headed and light-waisted and light-footed that
it seemed to me that they were just naturally mates.

Jack reached for those letters when they were addressed and started to
put them in his pocket, but I had reached first. I reckon he'd decided
that something might happen to them on their way to the post-office; but
nothing did, for I called in the butler and made him go right out and
mail them then and there.

I'd had the letters dated from my house, and I made Jack spend the night
there. I reckoned it might be as well to keep him within reaching
distance for the next day or two. He showed up at breakfast in the
morning looking like a calf on the way to the killing pens, and I could
see that his thoughts were mighty busy following the postman who was
delivering those letters. I tried to cheer him up by reading some little
odds and ends from the morning paper about other people's troubles, but
they didn't seem to interest him.

"They must just about have received them," he finally groaned into his
coffee cup. "Why did I send