“If he has no objection to the thing on principle--and he hasn’t--and he knows it would make two people happy, and leave him, except for legal freedom, very much where he was before, I can’t see why he won’t,” said Bill obstinately. “You’ve seen him?” “Oh yes. I’ve been talking to him for more than an hour.” “And she was there, too?” “Some of the time she was. They are very unhappy together, and have been all the time. I think, anyway, that Diamond will leave him now.” Mrs. Fazackerly looked at his young, unhappy face and pitied him profoundly. “All the same,” she said bravely, “it isn’t fair, really and truly it isn’t, to shirk one’s obligations. I know it’s dreadful to be with a man one doesn’t like, oh, Bill, I _do_ know it, but she did promise when she married him.” Bill didn’t exactly acquiesce, but he looked at her with understanding, sorrowful eyes, and Nancy felt that he, too, knew perplexity. Their conversation was not in the least conclusive. They talked round the subject, at least Mrs. Fazackerly did, and Bill Patch thanked her several times for caring and for letting him tell her about it. He repeated again that in spite of everything he was extraordinarily happy. Nancy Fazackerly assured me afterwards that she had no difficulty in believing him when he said that. Christopher Ambrey came to supper at Loman Cottage that evening. I suppose it was partly that which helped to fix it all so definitely in Mrs. Fazackerly’s mind. Anyhow, she apparently remembered it all very clearly. Dear Father, again I quote Nancy, was passing through rather a difficult phase that evening. This was her euphemism for the utterly impracticable moods that at intervals caused old Carey to embark upon interminable arguments, that led nowhere at all, with anybody whom he could find to argue with him. He had never succeeded very well in this amiable enterprise with Captain Patch because Patch had a facility, which very often goes with the power of writing, for seeing a great many sides to every question. Sooner or later, and it was generally sooner, he was certain to concede the tenability of his antagonist’s position, however much he might disagree, personally, with his views. But Christopher Ambrey could quite safely be counted upon to do nothing so baffling. He had not yet reached the stage of perceiving that nobody has ever yet been convinced of anything by argument, neither did he realize that he was doing poor Nancy a considerable disservice by taking part in one of the long, battledore-and-shuttlecock dialogues started by old Carey in pure contradictoriness. The old man had been talking crime, as he usually did, and some reference was made to a point of international law. Nancy said, “Father, how interesting”--not being in the least interested, but, as usual, only anxious to please. “You’re a little bit out there, sir, if I may say so,” Christopher began. “I think the way they work it is like this:--”