I threw up my hands with a gesture of sympathy. “You poor, silly girl!” I said. “What ever has induced you to think that?” “Your brother Edward.” I turned away from her. “It was because he asked us to be kind to you,” she went on, “that me and mother took the trouble to look after you of an evening. It’s kept you out of mischief.” “I suppose you’re aware that he’s marrying you for the sake of your money.” “Don’t think he is,” she replied. “I haven’t got any.” “But you will have?” “No!” I must say this for myself: that I kept wonderfully calm, considering the trying nature of the circumstances. It appeared that, although her mother’s name showed over the dairy, she was only the manager, working at a salary. I pointed out that this should have been mentioned to me before. She answered that Edward was acquainted with the fact, and there existed no reason why the information should be communicated to me. I saw the uselessness of arguing the point, and left her to make her way home alone, congratulating myself on a narrow escape. That night I wrote a rather clever letter to my brother Edward, the wording of which gave me trouble, but brought satisfaction; my only fear was that he might not have the intelligence to read between the lines. I said that I felt sure Lily Charlesworth would grow up to be the woman her mother was; he would no doubt be as happy as he deserved to be; I trusted it would be many weeks ere he discovered the mistake he had made. For myself, I had long since decided to remain a bachelor; I hinted that the courage of the family appeared to have centred itself in him. Begged him to convey my best regards to my mother, and to express my regret that, on his marriage, I could not see my way to offering her a home. Edward sent no answer to this, and he forwarded no invitation to the wedding. I should not have accepted it; indeed, I had drafted out a satirical reply, but I do think he might have sent me a card. I transferred my custom to a dairy in Brompton Road; and, at about that period, I spoke to a young lady in Hyde Park, mentioning that it was a fine evening, and that the days were drawing in. I may say at once this lady became my wife. It is unnecessary also that I should delay the information that her account of relatives, of her position in society, and of herself, given to me during the days of courtship, differed to a considerable extent from the details proffered during our honeymoon at Littlehampton, and this made it easy for me to explain that one or two exaggerations had somehow crept into the particulars which I had furnished concerning myself. For one day, after this, we exchanged no word with each other; and I have since been inclined to wish that she, at any rate, had continued this policy of silence, for, later on, she made remarks which (as I believe I pointed out at the time) proved her to be wanting in that fine and glorious attribute of women—the ability to forgive and forget.