"Well, tonight is going to be zero hour, I think." Ted proceeds with a
try at being flippant and Oliver cackles with mirth.

"I knew it. I knew it. Old Uncle Ollie, the Young Proposer's Guide and
Pocket Companion." Then his voice changes. "Luck," he says briefly.

"Thanks. Need it."

"Of course I'm not worthy," Ted begins diffidently but Oliver stops him.

"They never are. I wasn't. But that doesn't make any difference. You've
got to--_n'est-ce pas?_"

"You old bum! Yes. But when I think of it---"

"Don't"

"But leaving out everything else--it seems so damned _cheeky!_ When
Elinor's got everything, including all the money in the world, and I--"

"We talked that over a long time ago, remember? And remember what we
decided--that it didn't matter, in this year and world at least. Of
course I'm assuming that you're really in love with her--"

"I am," from Ted very soberly. "Oh I am, all right."

"Well then, go ahead. And, Theodore, I shall watch your antic motions
with the greatest sarcastic delight, both now and in the future--either
way it breaks. Moreover I'll take anybody out of the action that you
don't want around--and if there were anything else I could do--"

"Got to win off my own service," says Ted. "You know. But thanks all the
same. Only when I think of--some incidents of Paris--and how awful near
I've come to making a complete fool of myself with that Severance woman
in the last month--well--"

"Look here, Ted." Oliver is really worried. "You're not going to let
that--interfere--are you? Right now?"

"I've got to tell her." Ted's smile is a trifle painful. "Got to, you
know. Oh not that. But France. The whole business."

"But good heavens, man, you aren't going to make it the start of the
conversation?"

"Well--maybe not. But it's all got to be--explained. Only way I'll ever
feel decent--and I don't suppose I'll feel too decent then."

"But Ted--oh it's your game, of course. Only I don't think it's
being--fair--to either of you to tell her just now."

"Can't help it, Ollie." Ted's face sets into what Oliver once christened
his "mule-look." "I've thought it over backwards and sideways and
all around the block--and I can't squirm out of it because it'll be
incredibly hard to do. As a matter of fact," he pauses, "it'll tell
itself, you know, probably," he ends, more prophetically than he would
probably care to know.

"Well, I simply _don't_ see--"

"_Must_," and after that Oliver knows th