“May I ask,” I said, “if you have put your case to Miss Holt?” “Not in so many words,” he replied. “I thought I would see you first.” “That’s rather an unusual course nowadays, isn’t it?” “Well, that’s how the mater felt, anyway. It was her idea.” “You talked it over with your mother?” “Yes.” “So Rose is all ignorant of this visit?” “Yes,” he said. I shook hands with him again. “You are a very remarkable young man,” I said. “You respect your mother’s wishes and you don’t like rouged girls. I most cordially hope you will succeed in the egg market. But as for Rose, I can tell you something. Rose is in love with nobody.” “How can you tell?” he asked. “I happen to know her fairly well,” I replied, “and to have kept her under a certain amount of observation.” “But—but—” “You mean, once more, that I am too old? Maybe; but I guess that on this particular subject I am right. I’ll tell her that you called. Good afternoon.” “Oh, sir,” he said, “will you? Wouldn’t it be better to say nothing about it and let me see her first?” “It might be,” I replied; “but that isn’t the way that Miss Holt and I do things. We put the cards on the table. Good afternoon.” He walked moodily to his little runabout, cranked it, lighted another cigarette (although what use a cigarette can be in a thirty-mile gale such as he was about to create for himself, I have no notion) and was off. He left me thinking that the chances are that if I live on another twenty years, to be ninety—which I trust may not happen, even with the assistance of the new monkey-gland treatment—and I still retain a few faculties of hearing and speech and the simulacrum of a sympathetic heart, some young spark of the future will endeavour to engage my interest to help him in his courtship of Rose’s daughter—some young spark not yet born, desiring a bride not yet born. That would seem to be my destiny. But perhaps by 1940 there will be no such tedious preliminaries: nothing but capture and possession—and awakening. Or will the rhythm of life have reasserted itself and old-fashioned prejudices have returned? We move in circles. * * * * * During dinner that evening I said to Rose: “There was a young fellow here this afternoon asking after you.” “Archie Sebright, I suppose,” she said. “No,” I said. “Some one who dances with you, and—” “Reggie Saunderson, of course.” “No.” “Who was it, then?” “He had a very small moustache,” I said, “and he came in an even smaller car.” “Oh, Jack Nimmo.” “No,” I said. “He had purple socks, with clocks, and showed too much of them.” “That must have been Claude Musters.” “No,” I said. “You must tell me,” she insisted. “Why are you such a tease?” “His name was Sibthorp,” I said. “Oh!” Rose replied, “he’s staying with the Wilkinsons. He’s rather a nuisance, but he did well in the War, every one says. It’s terrible, the bores that did well in the War! What did he want?”