Not a flicker passed over his smooth waxen face or a gleam of sentiment appeared in his pale steady eyes. Norma glanced round at the little assembly, mainly composed of fleshy company promoters, who, as far as decency allowed, continued among themselves the conversation that had circulated over the wine downstairs, and their women-kind, who adopted the slangy manners of smart society and talked “bridge” to such men as would listen to them. Then she glanced back at Weever. “I don't want any more wives of that sort,” he went on. “I've outgrown them. I have no use for them. They would wilt like a snow anemone in this kind of atmosphere.” “Is it your favourite atmosphere, then?” Norma asked, by way of saying something. “More or less. Perhaps I like it not quite so mephitic--You are racking your brains to know why I'm telling you about my wife. I'll explain. In a little churchyard in Connecticut is a coffin, and in that coffin is what a man who is going to ask a woman to marry him ought to give her. I could never give a quiet-eyed New England girl anything again. At my age she would bore me to death. But I could give the woman who is accustomed to hot-houses a perfectly regulated temperature.” Norma looked at the imperturbable face, half touched by his unsuspected humanity, half angered by his assurance. “Are you by any chance making me a formal demand in marriage?” she asked. “I am.” “And at last you have found some one who would meet your requirements for the decorative wife?” “I found her last summer in Scotland,” replied Weever, with a little bow. “My countrymen have a habit of finding quickly what they want. They generally get it. I could n't in this particular instance, as you were engaged to another man.” “I am still engaged,” said Norma. “I beg your pardon. I heard the engagement was broken off.” “Not at all. In fact only yesterday was it settled that we should be married at Easter.” “Having gone so far on a false assumption,” remarked Weever, placidly, “may I go without rudeness a step farther? I do not dream of asking you to throw over King--if my heart were not in Connecticut, I might--but I'll say this, if you will allow me, Miss Hardacre: I don't believe you will ever marry Morland King. I have a presentiment that you're going to marry me--chiefly because I've planned it, and my plans mostly come out straight. Anyway you are the only woman in the world I should ever marry, and if at any time there should be a chance for me, a word, a hint, a message through the telephone to buy you a pug dog--or anything--would bring me devotedly to your feet. Don't forget it.” It was impossible to be angry with a bloodless thing that spoke like a machine. It was also unnecessary to use the conventional terms of regretful gratitude in which maidens in their mercy wrap refusals.