My grasp relaxed. I knew there must be something wrong in my reasoning. "Do you mean," I asked cautiously, "that you couldn't have told her because it wasn't true--or--or because it was." "I couldn't tell her _any_way," she cried, with a peal of laughter, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, how funny!" I sat down, feeling strangely flabby and weak. "Then why," I asked helplessly, mopping my brow, "did you repeat what I said about second marriages?" Her smile gave place to a look of anxiety. "Listen, Henry," she entreated, "and try to fix your mind on this. I explained to you that your opinion was the greatest comfort to her, and I told her what you thought because I wanted--_to_--_settle_--_her_--_mind_." "Oh, yes--just so," I assented. "And it got that way because she was old and foolish." I nodded with a vacuous air of perfect understanding. Marion leaned back on the sofa limply and stared at me. "Not because she was old and foolish, for she wasn't," she said helplessly, "but because she thought other people would _think_ she was." "Yes, yes," I repeated vacantly; "then you came along and straightened things out. Now," I added, "you may try your hand on me. _My_ mind's unsettled." I felt a foolish smile widening my mouth at Marion's look of alarm, and closed my eyes trustfully as my head drooped backwards. When I opened them again she was standing behind my chair shaking me with all her might. A fog seemed to drift away from my brain and I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask. "What--advice--did you--give?" I asked, in spasms. "To marry--Mr. Fair----" "_Marry!_" I shouted, leaping to my feet. "Old Fairman?" Her eyes shone with triumph. "_Mr._ Fairman, Henry," she said, in gentle reproof. "Auntie left all the arrangements to me, and she was delighted at the idea of being married here at the end of her visit. I knew you would be glad to do anything you could." "But where do I come in?" I asked, in bewilderment. "Oh, well, I don't exactly know yet, but I might want you to give her away if we decide to have anyone do that, and there are lots of things you can attend to." I smiled a smile that I keep for particular occasions. At times I can be decided; Marion says obstinate. But whether it is obstinacy or decision, I am as unyielding as a mule when the fit seizes me. I care not for reason, threats or chastisement; hope, fear, love and all else are encased in the one instinct to stand rigid, with my ears flat against my head and my fore-feet projecting slightly. Marion has learned that the only remedy is to pat me around the nose and put a lump of sugar in my mouth. So have I. "I'll do nothing of the kind," I said, with a quick sideways jerk of my head. Marion swallowed twice before she spoke. "Henry, dear," she said, sweetly, "I know you must have a good reason for your decision. Tell me what it is, won't you?"