“The announcement was the more pleasant,” I went on, “because James has been a bosom friend of mine.” “I’m afraid you are going to be extremely disagreeable about your cousin’s engagement,” she said. “I am,” I answered her. “Very disagreeable. I intend to shadow the young couple, to be constantly meeting them, calling attention to them. James will most likely have to try to assault me. That may mean a black eye for dear James. It will certainly mean the police court. Their engagement will be, in short, a succession of hideous _contretemps_, a series of laughable scenes.” “Julian,” said Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, “hitherto you have acted manfully toward Eva. You have been brave. Have you no regard for Eva?” “None,” I said. “Nor for Mr. Cloyster?” “Not a scrap.” “But why are you behaving in this appallingly selfish way?” This was a facer. I couldn’t quite explain to her how things really were, so I said: “Never you mind. Selfish or not, Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell, I’m out for trouble.” That night I had a letter from her. She said that in order to avoid all unpleasantness, Eva’s engagement would be of the briefest nature possible. That the marriage was fixed for the twelfth of next month; that the wedding would be a very quiet one; and that until the day of the wedding Eva would not be in London. It amused me to find how thoroughly I had terrified Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell. How excellently I must have acted, for, of course, I had not meant a word I had said to that good lady. In the days preceding the twelfth of June I confess I rather softened to James. The _entente cordiale_ was established between us. He told me how irresistible Eva had been that night; mentioned how completely she had carried him away. Had she not carried me away in precisely the same manner once upon a time? He swore he loved her as dearly as—(I can’t call to mind the simile he employed, though it was masterly and impressive.) I even hinted that the threats I had used in the presence of Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell were not serious. He thanked me, but said I had frightened her to such good purpose that the date would now have to stand. “You will not be surprised to hear,” he added, “that I have called in all my work. I shall want every penny I make. The expenses of an engaged man are hair-raising. I send her a lot of flowers every morning—you’ve no conception how much a few orchids cost. Then, whenever I go to see her I take her some little present—a gold-mounted umbrella, a bicycle lamp, or a patent scent-bottle. I’m indebted to you, Julian, positively indebted to you for cutting short our engagement.” I now go on to point two: the morning of the twelfth of June. Hurried footsteps on my staircase. A loud tapping at my door. The church clock chiming twelve. The agitated, weeping figure of Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell approaching my hammock. A telegram thrust into my hand. Mrs. Gunton-Cresswell’s hysterical exclamation, “You infamous monster—you—you are at the bottom of this.”