Mrs. Perkins and Franz's mother wept profusely, and Perkins disgraced himself in his own estimation by sobbing aloud in stifled tones be vainly sought to suppress on peril of choking. He finally retreated to the hall, where he encountered Russell with a limp handkerchief—“making an ass of herself, too.” A little later Philip drew the curtains in front of the windows to exclude the darkening sky and Perkins said, “When you get screwed up to it a wedding is really more festive than a funeral, though they seem to have much in common. Now I am in a measure familiar with the ordeal, I venture to predict this has been the most blissful day I shall ever know—when one of my dearest friends is married to another of my dearest friends.” Here he had difficulty with his words. “Doubtless you all think me a driveling idiot, but I feel like I don't know what—and I can't really help it.” Everybody laughed at this and Philip shook hands with him, saying he was the finest fellow in the world, while Margaret bestowed upon him a generous share of her bouquet. The gift bore with it a grateful little speech that caused him to weep afresh. It was very late, indeed, when they separated. “I assure you,” Perkins informed Philip when they had reached the Perkins home, “I assure you, it has been the most satisfactory event in my life, and it's a source of stupendous joy for me to reflect that my dear cousin Geoff is destined to undergo a severe mental shock in consequence. I think I am entitled to all the comfort I can get.” Philip smiled appreciatively. “What a funny little fellow you are! Such a good chap, too,” he added. “Well, I am glad she has Franz to look after her, and he will have the means to go on with his studies,” continued Perkins. “He is fortunate,” Philip replied. “We so seldom get what we want—generally it's what we don't want that comes to us.” Perkins looked at him curiously, his head well to one side and his chubby hands buried in the depths of his trousers pockets. “I say—what's up? Aren't you happy?” “I am blue, and not so decent as I should be. I am always and everlastingly thinking of myself. I am wretched—but you know what's wrong with me, so don't discuss it. I can't stand it.” “As you prefer, Philip. Still, don't you believe it will be all right in the end?” “It's not the future that troubles me. It's what may occur while I am flat on my back. I am fairly desperate!” Perkins gazed at him sorrowfully. Philip added: “I can't seem very generous to you when I flop into the dumps on no greater provocation than seeing those who are contented and at peace. My nature is not sweetened by adversity, it's being pickled in it.” He struck the floor savagely with the heel of his shoe. “I feel like running off from everything, and if I could include my miserable self among what I left behind, I'd not remain undecided.”