Before actually slipping it into the envelope, together with this edifying epistle, he read the marriage licence carefully through. The perusal started him on what, for him, was an unwonted train of thought. Already, while still in the first flush of youth, he had spoilt his life, brought it to final wreck and ruin. What an extremely silly thing to have done! It was characteristic of this young gentleman that he never could bring himself to look at anything through serious eyes--even death. Whatever his first impulse might be, his second was to smile. Life, with all that appertained thereto, was such a funny thing. Here was he, with a career on either hand, each of which would lead at least to fortune; yet he might have neither. That did seem droll. Each was represented by a woman; personally he would have preferred that which was represented by Gladys, if only because he had no doubt that ere long he would be master not only of the business but of her. He was not so sure of Stella. In her he suspected an obstinate streak which he feared might be congenital. He had always felt that the Austins were, as the head of the house had put it, "stocky." He would find them more inclined to manage than to be managed. One thing he did know of himself: that he never could be managed. He might not put up an open fight--open fighting was not precisely in his line--but, if a sustained attempt were made to manage him, he would slip away--somehow, that was sure. Therefore, if only for the sake of peace and quietude, it would be better to avoid the risk. All the same, there was something about Stella which did appeal to him. With a sudden smile, slipping the licence and the letter into the envelope, he closed the flap. Then, with pen in hand, as he was about to write the address, he started again to think. It was women--girls--who had brought him to his present pass, that was how he put it to himself. What Mabel Joyce said was perfectly true: he could not be alone with a girl without making love to her. It was a physical impossibility; he did not know why, but it was. The mischief was that his instinct had not warned him they were dangerous, hence his horrid situation. Indeed, it was hard that they should be dangerous; they were so pleasant to make love to. There were men who cared nothing for women, who went through life without making love--real love!--to a single one. How they managed he could not think. To him life under such conditions would not be worth living. He was a Sybarite. Life meant to him its good things; were there better things than women? He doubted it. He thought little of men; he had a very high opinion of women; he doubted if he had ever met one in whom there was not something to be desired.