“Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd story....” “Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her maid.” “Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry?” “I don’t know that I’d call him misguided,” said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair. “I think he’s a right smart picker! She’s such a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I’ve loved her for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I’m not one of these smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I’m not....” “If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry.” “Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I haven’t. It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does. I’m the sort of man....” “What is her name?” “... the sort of man who....” “What is her name?” “Bennett.” “Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father’s house?” “That’s it. You’re a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing.” “I intend to.” “Fine!” “The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane.” “That’s right. I’ve noticed it myself.” “Their auras are not the same colour.” “If I’ve thought that once,” said Bream Mortimer, “I’ve thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it. Not the same colour. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.” “I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps.” “That’s good. But what’s the procedure? It’s getting late. She’ll be waiting at the church at eleven.” “Eustace will not be there.” “You think you can fix it?” “Eustace will not be there,” repeated Mrs. Hignett. Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair. “Well, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.” “A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights.” “I’ll be going. Haven’t had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat breakfast. Relieved now. This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off in their prime. I feel I can rely on you.” “You can!” “Then I’ll say good-bye.” “Good-bye.” “I mean really good-bye. I’m sailing for England on Saturday on the ‘Atlantic.’” “Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller.” Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive. “You won’t tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?” “I beg your pardon?” “You won’t wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?” “I do not understand you.”