In a minute more he was sitting in an easy chair fingering a fragrant cigar and listening to the voice of Martin Moreland speaking so casually that he was quite disarmed. He was talking about the Commencement of the night before—how finely their young people had acquitted themselves; complimenting their schools and their teachers and the ability of the town to get together and handle an occasion like that in such a creditable manner to every one concerned. He was so suave, so extremely casual, so unlike the bronze dogs guarding his doorway, that Mahlon Spellman began watching him narrowly with the impression that there was something back of all this, and when Mr. Moreland looked him straight in the eye with the friendliest kind of a smile and inquired: “Does it impress you, Spellman, that my son and your daughter made the handsomest couple on the floor last night?” Mr. Spellman knew that the crux of the matter had been reached. He kept fingering the cigar in the hope that the motion might cover the trembling of his hands. His eyes narrowed and he tried to look far into the future. It was with some hesitation that he finally said: “I quite agree with you, Martin.” “Have you ever thought, Mahlon,” inquired Martin Moreland, “how very suitable a union between those two young people would be?” Again Mahlon Spellman hesitated. A ghastly sickness was gathering inside him. He had thought of that very thing, and he had hoped for it. But he never had the slightest intention of coercion. He did not like the look of this way of going about a betrothal. He had to say something. He said it hesitantly: “Yes, I’ve thought about it. I have imagined that you were thinking about it. As soon as my daughter finishes college and becomes thoroughly settled in her own mind, I should like to join with you in the hope that they will think seriously concerning each other.” Martin Moreland had been decent almost as long as he was capable of self-control. Outstanding in his memory was a vision of Mahala, gowned like a princess, crowned with youth and beauty, scouring the touch of his boy’s lips from hers as if he had been a thing of contamination. There was an edge to his voice and a touch of authority as he cried: “Nonsense! Sending a girl to college is the quickest way to ruin her! Send her to the kitchen and teach her how to be an excellent housewife like her mother! My boy is wild about her. He always has been. There’s not a reason in the world why they shouldn’t get married this fall and settle down to business.” During this speech there rushed through Mahlon Spellman’s mind, first of all because he was Mahlon, his own estimate of what had just been said to him and the man who had said it. Then he thought of what his wife would say, and then he thought of his daughter.