"He is a genuine hero of romance," says Mr. Monkton with conviction. "None of your cheap articles--a regular bonafide thirteenth century knight. The country ought to contribute its stray half-pennies and buy him a pedestal and put him on the top of it, whether he likes it or not. Once there Simon Stylites would be forgotten in half an hour. Was there ever before heard of such an heroic case! Did ever yet living man have the prowess to propose to the girl he loved! It is an entirely new departure, and should be noticed. It is quite unique!" "Don't be horrid," says his wife. "You know exactly what I mean--that it is a delightful ending to what promised to be a miserable muddle. And he is so charming; isn't he, now, Freddy?" "Is he?" asks Mr. Monkton, regarding her with a thoughtful eye. "You can see for yourself. He is so satisfactory. I always said he was the very husband for Joyce. He is so kind, so earnest, so sweet in every way." "Nearly as sweet as I am, eh?" There is stern inquiry now in his regard. "Pouf! I know what you are, of course. Who would, if I didn't? But really, Freddy, don't you think he will make her an ideal husband? So open. So frank. So free from everything--everything--oh, well, everything--you know!" "I don't," says Monkton, uncompromisingly. "Well--everything hateful, I mean. Oh! she is a lucky girl!" "Nearly as lucky as her sister," says Monkton, growing momentarily more stern in his determination to uphold his own cause. "Don't be absurd. I declare," with a little burst of amusement, "when he--they--told me about it, I never felt so happy in my life." "Except when you married me." He throws quite a tragical expression into his face, that is, however, lost upon her. "Of course, with her present fortune, she might have made what the world would call a more distinguished match. But his family are unexceptionable, and he has some money--not much, I know, but still, some. And even if he hadn't she has now enough for both. After all"--with noble disregard of the necessaries of life--"what is money?" "Dross--mere dross!" says Mr. Monkton. "And he is just the sort of man not to give a thought to it." "He couldn't, my dear. Heroes of romance are quite above all that sort of thing." "Well, he is, certainly," says Mrs. Monkton, a little offended. "You may go on pretending as much as you like, Freddy, but I know you think about him just as I do. He is exactly the sort of charming character to make Joyce happy." "Nearly as happy as I have made you!" says her husband, severely. "Dear me, Freddy--I really do wish you would try and forget yourself for one moment!" "I might be able to do that, my dear, if I were quite sure that you were not forgetting me, too."