Randall put it that its meaning was that it had simply happened, and suggested that his father-in-law was in every bit as good a position for understanding it as he. "I dare say. But what I'm trying to get at is--did you do anything to make it happen?" "What on earth do you suppose I did?" "There might be faults on both sides, though I don't say as there were. But did you do anything to prevent it? Tell me that." "What could I do? I didn't know it was going to happen." "You should have known. You was warned fair enough." "Was I? Who warned me, I should like to know?" "Why, I did, and her mother did. Told you straight. Don't you go for to say that I let you marry the girl under false pretenses, or her mother either. I told you what sort Virelet was, straight as I could, without vilifying my own flesh and blood. Did you want me to tell you straighter? Did you want me to put a name to it?" His little eyes shot sidelong at Randall, out of his fallen, shrunken fatness, more than ever crafty and intent. He was pitiful. Randall could have been sorry for him but that he showed himself so mean. His little eyes gave him so villainously away. They disclosed the fullness of his knowledge; they said he had known things about Violet; he had known them all the time, things that he, Randall, never knew. And he hadn't let on, not he. Why should he? He had been too eager, poor man, to get Violet married. His eagerness, that had appeared as the hardy flower of his geniality, betrayed itself now as the sinister thing it was--when you thought of the name that he could have given her! Randall did not blame him. He was past blaming anybody. He only said to himself that this explained what had seemed so inexplicable--the attitude, the incredible attitude of Mr. and Mrs. Usher; how they had leaped at him in all his glaring impossibility, an utter stranger, with no adequate income and no prospects; how they had hurried on the marriage past all prudence; how they had driven him on and fooled him and helped him to his folly. But he was not going to let them fool him any more. "Look here, Mr. Usher, I don't know what your game is and I don't care. I dare say you _think_ you told me what you say you did. But you didn't. You didn't tell me anything--not one blessed thing. And if you had it wouldn't have done any good. I wouldn't have believed you. You needn't reproach yourself. I was mad on Virelet. I meant to marry her and I did marry her. That's all." "Well," said Mr. Usher, partially abandoning his position, "so long as you don't hold me responsible--" "Of course, I don't hold you responsible." "I'm sure me and the Missis we've done what we could to make it easier for you." He gazed before him, conjuring up between them a quiet vision of the long procession of hampers, a reminder to Randall of how deeply, as it was, he stood indebted. "And we can't do no more. That's how it is. No more we can't do."