The scent of those summers comes to my nostrils now, the fragrance of lilac and honeysuckle, that brought ideas to one’s head, dreams of achievement, of perfection and happiness. Who has that cottage now, I wonder? Poor Laura’s dreams have been distorted into a very dismal sort of reality. And what of my own? But here is Griselda and she is announcing Dibdin. That grizzled priest of what he is pleased to call science growled in a way he meant to be pleasant as he shouldered into my comfortable study and sank sprawling into my best chair. He never seems quite at home in a civilized room. "Couldn’t get you on the telephone," he remarked. "Thought I’d drop over and see what iniquities you’re up to." "As you see," I told him, "I’m deep in crime." "Will you feed me?" he demanded with a gruffness that is part of his charm. "Certainly. What else can I do when you come at this hour?" "All right; then I’ll listen to you," he said. "But how," I wondered, "do you know I want to say anything?" "You look charged to the nozzle," he answered elegantly. "What is it—a rare edition of somebody or other?" Amazing devil, Dibdin. I always resent his ability to read me in this manner. But he tells me that in his archeological expeditions he has had so often to watch faces of Indians, Chinese, negroes, Turks and others whose language he did not speak, that to see the desires of men in their eyes amounts with him to an added sense. "Well, if you must know," I sat down facing him, "I am nonplussed, baffled, perplexed, at sea, on the horns of a dilemma—all of those things. I am to be married in three weeks." "Eager swain!" was his only comment. "Is that all you can say?" "Well, feeling about it the way you seem to feel, I might add that you’re a damn fool." "Tell me something novel!" I retorted irritably. "Can’t," he said. "That’s the only thing I know." "Comprehensive," I sneered. "Complete," was his succinct rejoinder. "What a comfort you are!" I cried with a harassed laugh. "What the devil made you get into it?" he growled. "Fate," I told him. "It’s a poor fate that doesn’t work both ways," he observed. "I suppose I sound to you like either a brute or a cad or both," I pursued. "But the fact is, Dibdin, I am not a marrying man. The girl in question has nothing to do with it. She’s an admirable, a splendid girl, far too good for the likes of me. But I simply hate the thought of marriage—of owing duties to anybody. I want to be free to do absolutely as I please, to go off with you to the Solomon Islands, or China or Popocatepetl if I want to, or to run after some first edition if I feel inclined. In short, I don’t want to bother about wives or children or whooping cough or measles, or have them bother about me. Would you call that selfish?" "Damnably," said Dibdin without emotion.