"What we want," said Dick resolutely, "is someone to advise us." He was a sentimental person, and given to idealism. "We ought to know how we stand before the thing goes any further. Marjory’s a dear little girl, and I shall never marry anybody else. But that doesn’t say I have the right to marry her on a hundred and ninety a year—you’ll admit that, Bob?" Bob admitted it, and ordered a "mixed Vermouth." They were sitting in the bar at the time, and could hear Bess Bethune scolding the doctor in the passage outside. Distantly, from the drawing-room came the strains of one of Schubert’s nocturnes, played by a "half-back" from Harrow, who had some difficulty with the bass. The charming Swiss girl, who served them, did not understand much English, but they would have consulted her for two pins, so dreadful was the emergency. "It’s my opinion, we were just rushed into it," said Bob, taking up the conversation from an unobservable point, "I like Nellie better than any girl I ever saw, but I confess it’s rather a knock to hear she’s been engaged three times already. Suppose I were to meet one of the other fellows when we’re married! He’d have the laugh of me, anyway." Dick sighed. "Marjory’s been engaged once—she told me so. I don’t think a girl can be expected to know her own mind until she’s two or three and twenty. We’d have to take a little flat somewhere, and cut it deuced close; do you think she is the girl to do that, Bob?" Bob was far from thinking it. "She proposes to run a motor, Dick, she told me so. You’ve got fifteen hundred a year and a shooting-box in Scotland, so the hotel says. My place is in Norfolk—I suppose they mean the tent Jack Stevens and I pitched by Horsey Mere last autumn. I didn’t say so, though; let’s keep it up as long as we can; in for a penny, in for fifteen hundred pound, you know." Dick drained his glass and appeared to cogitate. Presently he said, almost as though it were an inspiration: "I tell you what, Bob, let’s talk to the ’little widow’ about it. I’m sure she’s a woman of the world. She’d put us straight, right enough; let’s go up and see her." Bob looked at him scornfully. "Why, where do you think she is, then?" "Who, Mrs. Kennaird? Why, in Number 43, of course. It’s on the board, isn’t it?" "The board be hanged! She’s left the hotel—she left this morning, and went up to the chalet, near Benny’s." "Then let’s go to the chalet after her. I’m sure she’s one of the nicest little women in the place. And she’s been married herself; she’d know what we ought to do. Let’s go and see her now."