“Perhaps one ought to have foreseen the gods’ intention of making you a business man,” said Samuel, “for you certainly carried out the unscrupulous deceiver part with wonderful success—That is—jolly well—what? My Red Place now sings a hymn of praise to you, to the tune of ten pounds a week—clear.” “Don’t mention it,” said the gardener. “It didn’t need much unscrupulous deceiving to persuade your mother to get her heart to work. And, to tell you the truth, the end was rather drowned in the means on that journey. I got so busy living—I only thought of you when absolutely necessary.” “I didn’t expect you to wear my image graven on your heart, what?” said Samuel. “You are young, and living should certainly be your business. Is that why you said you were a business man? I have often thought that being young and only lately set up in business, you had no business to saddle yourself with a wife.” “No business whatever,” admitted the gardener. “Then why did you?” “I didn’t.” “Good heavens,” said Samuel fretfully, “why was I born in such a cryptic age?” “The truth is—I spoke in a futurist sense when I called her my wife.” “In other words, you lied,” suggested Samuel. “You just took a little tame woman on a string for a trip, as many better men have done before you?” “I dragged a woman by force across the Atlantic, and then she ran away. She ran back home.” “The silly ass,” said Mr. Rust irritably. “Why did she do that?” “The attitude of women towards force ...” said the gardener sententiously, “is not what psychologists make it out to be. By some of the books I’ve read, I would have thought that women worshipped brute force; I would have thought that they kept their hair long specially in order to be dragged about by it.” “I have known very few women really well,” said Samuel; “and the ones I knew didn’t wear hair that they could be dragged about by. I should think the final disappearance of your post-impressionist wife was rather a good riddance.” “It was neither good nor a riddance. In the same futurist sense I still call her my wife. It’s an effort, I admit, to continue to be fond of a militant suffragette, and yet somehow it’s an effort I can’t help making.” Courtesy appeared, her hair an impudent rival to the sunset. “I’ve brought your book from the library,” she said. “I couldn’t get any books by Somethingevsky, as you asked, so I brought _The Rosary_. “I ought to congratulate you on your engagement,” said the gardener. “In fact—Mrs. Rust being out of earshot—I do.” “Thank you,” said Courtesy, looking wonderfully pretty. “I wish everybody in the world was as happy as I am, though of course marriage is an awful risk. How’s your young woman, gardener?” “As militant as ever,” said the gardener. “I’m expecting a letter from her any day, or a telegram any minute.” “Why, is she coming down here?”