eat himself, with what
appearance of deliberation he could manage, in the nearest chair. March,
however, remained on his feet.

"I brought her home last night," he went on, "very late--early this
morning rather--with the intention of leaving her here alone. But I
decided to stay. Also it was her preference that I should. I suspect
she's asleep. She promised, at least, to call me if she didn't."

That, apparently, finished for the present what he had to say. He
turned--it really was rather gentle the way he disengaged himself from
the fixity of John's look,--replaced the cushions on the cane davenport;
and then, seating himself, began putting on his shoes.

Precisely that gentleness, though it checked on John's tongue the angry
question, "What the devil were you doing with her until early this
morning?" only added to his anger by depriving it of a target. For a
minute he sat inarticulate, boiling.

It was an outrageous piece of slacking on Rush's part that he should have
deserted his sister before the arrival of one or the other of his
promised reenforcements relieved him of his duty. It was inexcusable of
Lucile to let a trivial matter like a broken spring keep her at Hickory
Hill. There were plenty of trains, weren't there? And the third rail
every hour? It was shockingly disengenuous of Mary, when she talked with
him over the telephone yesterday afternoon, to have suppressed the
essential fact that Rush had already deserted her and that she was at
that moment alone.

And then his anger turned upon himself, as a voice within him asked
whether, on his conscience, he could affirm that this knowledge would
have made a difference in his own actions. Could he be sure he wouldn't
have clutched at the assurance that his sister was already on the way
rather than have exacerbated his quarrel with Paula by doing the one
thing that would annoy her most.

Laboriously he got himself together, steadied himself. "You mustn't
think," he said, "that I'm not grateful. We're all grateful, of course,
to you for having done what our combined negligence appears to have made
necessary." Then his voice hardened and the ring of anger crept into it
as he added, "You may be sure that nothing of the sort will occur again."

"No," March said dryly. "It won't occur again." He straightened up
and faced John Wollaston squarely. "I've persuaded Mary to marry
me," he said.

"To marry--_you_!" John echoed blankly. For a moment before his mind