the romance of one generation makes the realities of
the next, and that a love-affair twenty years old becomes a problem in
heredity, demanding the attention of the learned, and receiving that of
the general public also. So that though the affair and the man be to all
seeming insignificant, consolation may be found in the prospect of a
posthumous importance; and he who did nothing very visible in his
lifetime may, when his son's biography comes to be written, be held
grandfather to an epic poem or a murder on the high seas--and it seems
to be considered that it is touch and go which way the thing turns out.
Are there then any episodes left? Does not everything become an
enterprise of great pith and moment, with results that will probably,
some day or other, be found to admit of mathematical demonstration?
Happily the human race, in practice if not in theory, declines the
conclusion. We know that we are free, and there's an end of it, said Dr
Johnson. Well, at least we can still think that we are doing what we
like--and that's the beginning of most things.

That temporary inferiority of Bob Broadley's, on which Cecily had
touched so feelingly, was soon redressed, and after the wedding Harry
had a talk with the bride. It was not unnatural that she should blush a
little when he spoke to her--a passing tribute to the thought of what
might have been. Harry greeted it with a laugh.

"I suppose we'd better be straightforward about this?" he said.
"Mingham's so near Blent, you see. We're both very glad, aren't we, Mrs
Broadley?"

"I imagine so," said Janie. "You show no signs of pining anyhow."

"And as to our behavior--there's not a father in the kingdom who
wouldn't think us right."

"I was the worst--because I think I was in love with Bob all the time."

"I was just as bad--because I thought you were too," said Harry.

"How could we do it then?" she asked.

"That's the odd thing. It didn't seem at all out of the way at the
time," he pondered.

"You'd do it again now, if the case arose, but I shouldn't. That's the
difference," said she.

Harry considered this remark for a moment with an impartial air. "Well,
perhaps I should," he admitted at last, "but you needn't tell that to
Cecily. Content yourself with discussing it with Mina or Mr Neeld."

"I'm tired of both of them," she cried. "They do nothing but talk about
you."

That night as he sat in the garden at Blent with his wife, Harry
returned the compliment