g room, she said. "But, my savin' soul, what are you doin'
back here, Mr. Cabot? Has the automobile blowed up?"

He did not satisfy her curiosity. Instead, he knocked on the door of the
sitting room and, when Miss Phipps called to him to come in, he obeyed,
closing the door behind him. She was sitting by the window and her
sewing was in her lap. Yet he was almost certain she had not been
sewing. Her face was very grave and, although he could not see
distinctly, for the afternoon was cloudy and the room rather dark, it
seemed to him that there was a peculiar look about her eyes. She, like
her maid, was surprised to see him again.

"Why, Mr. Cabot," she cried, rising, "what is it? Has something
happened?"

He plunged headfirst into the business that had brought him there. It
was the sort of business which, if approached with cool deliberation,
was extremely likely never to be transacted.

"Miss Phipps," he said, "I came back here on an impulse. I have
something I want to say to you. In a way it isn't my affair at all
and you will probably consider my mentioning it a piece of brazen
interference. But--well, there is a chance that my interfering now may
prevent a very serious mistake--a grave mistake for two people--so I am
going to take the risk. Miss Phipps, I just met my cousin and he gave me
to understand that you had refused his offer of marriage."

He paused, momentarily, but she did not speak. Her expression said a
good many things, however, and he hurried on in order to have his say
before she could have hers.

"I came here on my own responsibility," he explained. "Please don't
think that he has the slightest idea I am here. He is, as you know, the
mildest person on earth, but I'm not at all sure he wouldn't shoot me if
he knew what I came to say to you. Miss Phipps, if you possibly can do
so I earnestly hope you will reconsider your answer to Galusha Bangs.
He is very fond of you, he would make you a kind, generous husband, and,
honestly, I think you are just the sort of wife he needs."

She spoke then, not as if she had meant to, but more as if the words
were involuntarily forced from her by shock.

"You--you think I am the sort of wife he needs?" she gasped. "_I_?"

"Yes, you. Precisely the sort."

"For--for HIM. YOU think so?"

"Yes. Now, of course, if you do not--er--care for him, if you could not
think of him as a husband--oh, hang it, I don't know how to put it, but
you know what I mean. If you d