"Say, Barry, why all these frills? You surely didn't think I meant any harm--any disrespect to the girl?" "Of course not." He spoke rather coldly. "Only--well, I don't like to hear you joking about marrying Miss Gibbs. She's a decent little thing, and far too good to be made a cat's paw in a game of revenge." Owen looked at his friend quietly. "You're right, Barry, and if I were only joking it would be a bit low-down. But suppose I mean it? Suppose I ask the girl to marry me, quite quietly, not entering into any heroics or telling any condemned lies, and she accepts me, what then?" Barry's heart gave a sudden throb of dismay. There was something behind Owen's calm manner which made him feel vaguely uneasy. Could it be that Owen too had surprised Toni's pitiful little secret--that he knew--had known all along that the girl was not so indifferent to him as she wished to appear? For the moment Barry was nonplussed. If it were so, if Owen knew, and, knowing, chose to take the risk of the girl's acceptance, had he any right to interfere? That Toni would accept, Barry felt almost convinced; and yet, fond as he was of his friend, fond as he was, too, of the girl with whom he had worked during these weeks of spring, Barry was clear-sighted enough to feel assured that such a marriage would not make for happiness. It might answer for a time. If Toni wore genuinely attached to Rose, as Barry was inclined to believe, it was possible--nay, probable--that her affection for him would bring out the best in Owen's nature, and he would repay that affection with a real and kindly consideration. But when the first freshness had worn off, when Owen should have grown used to the girl's shy gratitude and devotion, when her prettiness, her radiant youth, her naive simplicity should have ceased to charm, what then would remain? For all his sporting instincts Owen was primarily a man of letters, versatile, brilliant, even distinguished in his way; and Barry foresaw a bitter disillusionment for each of the pair when the real dissimilarity of their natures should, as must inevitably happen, become apparent to both. To Toni, who never willingly opened a book, her husband's delight and absorption in the masterpieces of literature must be a constant wonder; while to Rose, Toni's ignorance, her youthful, unashamed lack of interest in the "things which matter" would be a perpetual irritation. Although not so brilliant as his friend, Barry experienced at times flashes of almost uncanny insight; and as he contemplated the possibility of this marriage he had a sudden clear conviction that it would not, could not, turn out successfully. "See here, Owen"--he faced the other man resolutely--"you must know the thing is quite impossible. Miss Gibbs is a nice little girl, a pretty little thing and as straight as a die. But she is not your equal in any sense; neither socially nor intellectually; and though you may not believe it, you would regret the marriage in a week."