ok it upon myself to dismiss her with a nod after she had smoked a
cigarette over her coffee. Mrs. Marigold, as a soldier's wife, I
announced, had a world of invaluable advice to give her. Willie Connor
opened the door. On the threshold she said very prettily:

"Don't drink too much of Major Meredyth's old port. It has been known
before now to separate husbands and wives for years and years."

He looked after her for a few seconds before he closed the door.

Oh, my God! I've looked like that, in my time, after one dear woman....
Humanity is very simple, after all. Every generation does exactly the
same beautiful, foolish things as its forerunner. As he approached the
table, I said with a smile:--

"You're only copying your great-great-grandfather."

"In what way, sir?" he asked, resuming his place.

I pushed the decanter of port. "He watched the disappearing skirt of
your great-great-grandmother."

"She was doubtless a very venerable old lady," said he, flushing and
helping himself to wine. "I never knew her, but she wasn't a patch on
Betty!"

"But," said I, "when your great-great-grandfather opened the door for
her to pass out, she wasn't venerable at all, but gloriously young."

"I suppose he was satisfied, poor old chap." He took a sip. "But those
days did not produce Betty Fairfaxes." He laughed. "I'm jolly sorry for
my ancestors."

Well--that is the way I like to hear a young man talk. It was the
modern expression of the perfect gentle knight. In so far as went his
heart's intention and his soul's strength to assure it, I had no fear
for Betty's happiness. He gave it to her fully into her own hands;
whether she would throw it away or otherwise misuse it was another
matter.

Though I have ever loved women, en tout bien et tout honneur, their
ways have never ceased from causing me mystification. I think I can
size up a man, especially given such an opportunity as I had in the
case of Willie Connor--I have been more or less trained in the business
all my man's life; but Betty Fairfax, whom I had known intimately for
as many years as she could remember, puzzled me exceedingly. I defy
anyone to have picked a single fault in her demeanour towards her
husband of to-morrow. She lit a cigarette for him in the most charming
way in the world, and when he guided the hand that held the match, she
touched his crisp hair lightly with the fingers of the other. She was
all smiles. When we met in the drawing-room, she r