“Ah, Knowles,” he said, cheerfully. “Thought it was you. Haven't seen you of late. Missed you at Burgleston, on the course. How are you?” I told him I was quite well, and inquired concerning his own health. “Topping,” he replied. “Rotten weather, eh--what? And how's Miss--Oh, dear me, always forget the name! The eccentric aunt who is so intensely patriotic and American--How is she?” “She is well, too,” I answered. “Couldn't think of her being ill, somehow,” he observed. “And where have you been, may I ask?” I said I had been on the Continent for a short stay. “Oh, yes! I remember now. Someone said you had gone. That reminds me: Did you go to Paris? Did you see the girl who sang at the Abbey--the one I told you of, who looked so like that pretty niece of yours? Hope you did. The resemblance was quite extraordinary. Did you see her?” I dodged the question. I asked him what he had been doing since the day of the golf tournament. “I--Oh, by Jove!” he exclaimed, “now I am going to surprise you. I have been getting ready to take the fatal step. I'm going to be married.” “Married!” I repeated. “Really? The--the Warwickshire young lady, I presume.” “Yes. How did you know of her?” “Your aunt--Lady Carey--mentioned that your--your affections were somewhat engaged in that quarter.” “Did she? Really! Yes, she would mention it, I suppose. She mentions it to everybody; it's a sort of hobby of hers, like my humble self, and the roses. She has been more insistent of late and at last I consented to oblige her. Do you know, Knowles, I think she was rather fearful that I might be smitten by your Miss Morley. Shared your fears, eh?” I smiled, but I said nothing. A train which I believed to be the one upon which Hephzy was expected, was drawing into the station. “A remarkably attractive girl, your niece,” he went on. “Have you heard from her?” “Yes,” I said, absently. “I must say good-by, Heathcroft. That is the train I have been waiting for.” “Oh, is it. Then, au revoir, Knowles. By the way, kindly remember me to your niece when you see her, will you.” “I will. But--” I could not resist the temptation; “but she isn't my niece,” I said. “Oh, I say! What? Not your niece? What is she then?” “She is my wife--now,” I said. “Good-by, Mr. Heathcroft.” I hurried away before he could do more than gasp. I think I shook even his serene composure at last. I told Hephzy about it as we rode to the hotel in the cab. “It was silly, I suppose,” I said. “I told him on the spur of the moment. I imagine all Mayberry, not to mention Burgleston Bogs, will have something to talk about now. They expect almost anything of Americans, or some of them do, but the marriage of an uncle and niece ought to be a surprise, I should think.”