"Look here," he went on, "I don't want you to tell me what you both think for a week--till I come back from Yorkshire. I'm too old for her, I know. But I seem to be pretty sound, and I--well, dash it all, Peter, you know her better than I do, although you--d'you know, by the way, that you rather put me off her in that last letter of yours?" "Did I?" I asked. "Perhaps that was because I don't really know her so well." "Well, first," he said, "there was that Lynn affair, of course. But that's dead, isn't it?" "Quite," I told him; "and they've both gone out of mourning." "And then," he went on, "you made me think of a rather up-to-date young woman, quite nice, of course," he looked at me apologetically, "but perhaps just a little bit self-complacent. Whereas I found in her, instead, everything that I've always worshipped most, you know--from rather a long way off." * * * * * That was a week ago. And since he left, as you will imagine, both Esther and I have done a good deal of thinking. For on the one side we couldn't help feeling the absurdity of regarding Rupert as a son-in-law. And on the other we should be giving our daughter--or rather watching her go--into the hands of one of our oldest friends. Given love too, how well should they be mated; both so strong, but he so abidingly simple, so unchallenged by surrounding mysteries, and she so eager, so delicately tuned to each passing subtlety of thought. Characteristically enough, he had neither told us, before he went, how clearly he had shown Molly his feelings, nor asked us to discuss with her, or to withhold, his announcement to ourselves. And so we said nothing to her about it. But just now, as we were expecting his arrival, I discovered, I think, that our desire for her had been fulfilled. For with a shyness bringing back to me a little girl that I had forgotten, she had perched herself on the arm of my chair; so that when his voice was in the hall there wasn't very far to bend. "You told me to wait for Heaven, you know," she reminded me. And her eyes confessed that it was standing at the door. Your affect. brother, PETER. P.S.--I can see you pursing those wise lips of yours, and muttering that Heaven has been a little sudden. But I believe that there are precedents for this. XXVIII _To Miss Josephine Summers, The Cottage, Potham, Beds._ 91B HARLEY STREET, W., _November_ 26, 1910. MY DEAR AUNT JOSEPHINE,