A moment later the best man alighted at the station and looked regretfully after the train. He had been too late. Mr. Burrow had not considered the possible effect on Miss Asheton of his contemplated bluntness. It had not mattered. Mr. Burrow had the military mind. The military mind can not pause to consider the feelings of the enemy. Decimation is painful to an army but desirable to the attacking general. The military mind sees and pursues one object. Mr. Burrow’s one object was to rid himself of a superfluous young female. It was the same thing that makes some warriors slay prisoners rather than be burdened with them on the march. For an appreciable space of time the Hon. Alexander Hamilton Burrow eyed Miss Asheton with icy politeness. She looked back at him inquiringly. There was nothing ardent in the tableau. “I take it you are the bride-elect?” hazarded the Hon. Alexander. “Yes.” The man had no idea the monosyllable could be so short. Her voice was so musical that it was altogether too short. “I’m A. H. Burrow. I’m the best man.” “Yes, but where is Lewis?” Miss Asheton put the question with a pardonable eagerness. Conversely, her voice conveyed an entire absence of interest in the best man. “All the weddings I have ever attended,” said Mr. Burrow sententiously, “were marred by some slight hitch or omission. At this one the missing detail seems to be the bridegroom.” Having spoken, he awaited her hysterics. * * * * * It happened that Miss Asheton was not the hysterical sort. She merely looked at Mr. Burrow, and Mr. Burrow suddenly felt himself grow microscopic. Also, he was puzzled. This young woman had planned to elope with Mr. Lewis Copewell. That indicated that she must consider Mr. Lewis Copewell a desirable possession. He had just announced, with studied bluntness, that she could not have Mr. Copewell. Why did she not take the cue and weep? He regarded it as axiomatic that women and children cry for what they want. Yet here before him, in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, she stood eying him like an offended young goddess, precisely as though he were responsible and she meant to punish him. Mr. Burrow had not arranged his battle-front to receive that type of enemy. It dawned upon him that this was a very brave young woman and, although he admitted it reluctantly, a very beautiful young woman. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she suggested icily, “you might explain more fully. On the whole, I think I have the right to understand.” Mr. Burrow shrugged his shoulders. “My dear Miss Asheton,” he began with weak defiance, yet feeling that she had put him on the defensive, “might I remind you that this is not my funer—that is to say, my wedding? All I can learn is that he left Mercerville, and did _not_ arrive here. The question which now suggests itself to me, is this: What are the functions of a best man when there is no marriage?”