tly frank with you, I am not quite certain
of my own affections. I decided that, with companionship, these might
develop after marriage. But supposing they do not, then I shall have
rendered her unhappy. Is not the risk too great?'

He leaned forward and laid his hand on mine with an expression of great
earnestness. 'In this matter,' he said slowly, 'I intend to abide by
your decision. I have supreme faith in your judgment, and I do not
believe you would advise me wrongly. Tell me what I ought to do. Do
you think it is making for the happiness of two people if they are
united under these peculiar circumstances?'

'I said I would never interfere,' I began weakly.

'It isn't a question of interfering,' he broke in, 'but only a matter
of advising what you think is right or wrong.'

I hesitated, feeling the responsibility keenly. It is true that I am
accustomed to giving advice on these delicate matters. In my capacity
of writer on the Woman's Page I often discuss affairs of the heart,
getting much correspondence on the subject and (if a stamped addressed
envelope is enclosed) giving unsparing help and assistance to perplexed
lovers. But this case seemed entirely different. It lacked any
element of the frivolous. I knew that Manor's whole happiness depended
on my answer.

Supposing I suggested that the marriage should go on and afterwards the
couple turned out to be totally unsuited, what a serious situation I
should have created. As a matter of fact, I more than once suspected
that they were incompatibles, but hoped that they would ultimately
accommodate themselves to each other. If, however, they did not, I
should be confronted with the spectacle of two most excellent people
(apart) being thoroughly unhappy (together) for the remainder of their
lives. I shivered before the prospect, and was on the point of telling
William that I would never advise a union to take place unless there
was perfect understanding and sympathy between a couple, when he spoke
again.

'It's just at the last minute all these doubts have assailed me,' he
explained. 'I didn't realize before how serious a thing marriage
is--how irrevocable.'

In a flash Elizabeth's words came into my mind. I recalled her
references to men who get in a 'funk' and want to stop proceedings on
the eve of the wedding, and then I saw the whole thing. William was
that sort of man. I had an instinctive idea just then that no matter
who he was going