That confidence waned during the succeeding week when Charlie Birdsall continued to drive past the inn with nothing more encouraging than a wave of the hand. Miriam grew more intent in her attentions as Wesley spent less time at his writing. His Aunt Jessica, gauging his ebbing resistance, put the first of her matrimonial trumps on the table. She cornered Wesley one morning just after Miriam had driven away to school in her coupe. "It's high time you stopped mooning around with the stars, Wesley Filburn," his Aunt Jessica said, "and took stock of yourself. You're thirty-two years old, you've no income except the miserable dribble you get from your wild stories and you've no more responsibility than a wild goat in the hills. It's time you settled down." Wesley might have protested his independence, but his lifelong conditioning had left him too little to discover. His Aunt Jessica had brought him up from childhood after the death of his parents, who had owned his half of the inn before him; he owed her a great deal for her care and affection, as he had been told often enough to remove any lingering doubt, and the least he could do now was heed her wiser counsel. "I'm too old and worn to keep the inn as it should be kept," his Aunt Jessica went on firmly. "I'm ready to retire and live with my widowed sister in California, but I can't go until you're safely settled with someone who will see that you take care of your own interests. You couldn't deny me the comfortable retirement I've earned, could you?" Wesley couldn't. It occurred to him that his Aunt Jessica was only fifty-five and that her retirement had been provided for out of the net proceeds of the inn--it had always taken his share to meet expenses--but he put the ungrateful thought away guiltily. Aunt Jessica had earned her retirement while he idled, too busy spinning dreams to attend to his trust. If he had had no Aunt Jessica to turn to-- "It's simple enough," his Aunt Jessica said. "I'll move in with my sister as soon as you are married. Miriam is an excellent manager; the two of you should have a comfortable thing of it, the tourist trade holding up as it is." "I suppose you're right," Wesley said. "You usually are." Miriam _was_ a competent manager; he could picture her without strain with her rimless spectacles clamped firmly on her adequate nose, meager lips set while she totted up their assets. Miriam was an inch taller than himself and a year or two older, but such details, his Aunt Jessica was fond of saying, mattered a fig or less. It was the heart that counted. "All that's needed," his Aunt Jessica finished, "is telling Miriam. Will you, or shall I?" Some spark of repressed independence made Wesley mutter, "I'll tell her."