found Bob Power and Marion in the garden, but not, as I expected,
eating gooseberries. They were sitting together on a seat opposite a
small artificial pond in which I try to keep gold fish. When I came
upon them they were sitting up straight, and both of them were gazing
intently into the pond. This surprised me, because all the last
consignment of gold fish had died, and there was nothing in the pond
to look at.

I told Bob about Godfrey and the letter to the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. His reception of the news was even more disappointing than
McNeice's was. He neither laughed, as I hoped, nor even scowled. In
fact, if I had not spoken quite distinctly, I should have thought that
he did not hear what I said.

"Lord Kilmore," he said, "I think I ought to tell you at once--"

Then he stopped and looked at Marion. She became very red in the face.

"Father," she said, "Bob and I--"

Then she stopped too. I waited for a long time. Neither of them did
more than begin a sentence; but Bob took Marion's hand and held it
tight. I thought it better to try to help them out.

"I don't know," I said, "whether I've guessed rightly--"

"Of course you have, father," said Marion.

"If not," I said, "it'll be very embarrassing for all of us when I
tell you what my guess is."

"Marion and I--" said Bob.

"Have spent the morning," I said, "in finding out that you want to
marry each other?"

"Of course we have," said Marion.

"Of course," said Bob.

The discovery that they both wanted the same thing made them
ridiculously happy. Marion kissed me with effusive ardour, putting her
left arm tight round my neck, but still holding on to Bob with her
right hand. Bob, after our first raptures had subsided a little,
insisted on going down to Godfrey's lodgings, and apologizing for
breaking his ribs. I told him that an apology delivered in that spirit
would merely intensify Godfrey's wish to write to the Chancellor of
the Exchequer. But nothing I said moved Bob in the least. He was so
happy that he wanted to abase himself before some one.

CHAPTER XV

Babberly is in some ways a singularly unlucky man. A place for him,
and that a high one, ought to have been quite secure in the next
Unionist Cabinet. Now he will never hold office under any government,
and yet no one can say that his collapse was in any way his own fault.

On the very day on which the Chancellor of the Exchequer received
Godfrey's letter, Babberly anno