"Oh," he said, "no rotting. You see, it's like this. I'm awfully keen on Ann and she's keen on me, I believe, but I've had a bit of a facer lately. There's my brother Dick, for example, a much better sort than I am--much steadier and domesticated and all that--well, he's just left his wife for no other reason than because he's tired of her. Whether there's anyone else, I don't know; fellows at the Club tell me there always is. But Dick swears there isn't. Anyway, he's gone. That's one thing. Another thing is that I had a fearful jaw the other day from an old aunt of mine who says it's the cruellest and wickedest thing there is to be engaged to a girl for a long time and not marry her; because the girl's losing the best years of her life. That set me thinking, because don't you see there's always the possibility that Ann, although she doesn't mind knocking about with me, might, if she were free, meet some other Johnnie whom she would want to marry at once." "How would you like to see her doing that?" I asked. "Oh, I couldn't stand it," said Dollie. "Then why don't you marry now?" I asked. "Well," he said, "for one thing, Ann doesn't seem to want to, and for another, I don't much want to myself." "But you're so keen on her, you say," I remarked. "Yes, of course I am. But the word husband's so stuffy." I groaned for the younger generation. "Yes," he went on, "I'm glad you agree with me. And there's something so ghastly in the thought of settling down, don't you know." "Well, that's what so many people like--the settlement of it. But look at your friend Farrar, he's not exactly a home-bird, yet he and his wife seem very happy, and they lead, married, very much the same life that you do, unmarried." "That's true," said Dollie. "But he's Farrar, and I'm not. I'm another Johnnie altogether--the sort that's ever so much happier engaged than he will be when he's married; and so's Ann, I believe; but the silly thing about it is that we're only so happy now because the idea is we're going to be married--otherwise she wouldn't be allowed to go about with me at all. Isn't that what you call a bally paradox? But anyhow, what do you advise?" "Suppose I were to say," I replied, "that my advice to you was to marry at once." He started nervously. "Oh, I say," he said. "Not really. But that would be awfully risky, you know. Look at poor old Dick--suppose I got tired like that too? And it's not impossible, you know. Why, I was awfully fond of Naomi once, and then you remember Miss Verity. I was fearfully gone there for a while. Do you really think I ought to make the plunge?" "Then suppose," I said, "that my advice was, go to Ann and say that you have realized that you don't love her enough"--he started nervously again--"and wish to break off your engagement." "Oh, but," he said, "I don't. I should be miserable without her. And so would she."