now, as an affianced woman, was very disturbing to her.  However, she did not care.  She did not understand how Simon Loggerheads had had the wit to perceive that she would be an ideal wife.  And she did not care.  She did not understand how, as a result of Simon Loggerheads falling in love with her, she had fallen in love with him.  And she did not care.  She did not care a fig for anything.  She was in love with him, and he with her, and she was idiotically joyous, and so was he.  And that was all.

On reflection, I have to admit that she did in fact care for one thing.  That one thing was the look on her brother’s face when he should learn that she, the faithful sardonic sister, having incomprehensibly become indispensable and all in all to a bank cashier, meant to desert him.  She was afraid of that look.  She trembled at the fore-vision of it.

Still, Richard had to be informed, and the world had to be informed, for the silken dalliance between Mary and Simon had been conducted with a discretion and a secrecy more than characteristic of their age and dispositions.  It had been arranged between the lovers that Simon should call on that Friday evening, when he would be sure to catch Richard in his easy chair, and should, in presence of Mary, bluntly communicate to Richard the blunt fact.

“What’s he gone out for?  Anything special?” asked Simon.

Mary explained the circumstances.

“The truth is,” she finished, “that girl is just throwing herself at Dick’s head.  There’s no doubt of it.  I never saw such work!”

“Well,” said Simon Loggerheads, “of course, you know, there’s been a certain amount of talk about them.  Some folks say that your brother—­er—­began—­”

“And do you believe that?” demanded Mary.

“I don’t know,” said Simon.  By which he meant diplomatically to convey that he had had a narrow escape of believing it, at any rate.

“Well,” said Mary, with conviction, “you may take it from me that it isn’t so.  I know Dick.  Eva Harracles may throw herself at his head till there’s no breath left in her body, and it’ll make no difference to Dick.  Do you see Dick a married man?  I don’t.  I only wish he would take it into his head to get married.  It would make me much easier in my mind.  But all the same I do think it’s downright wicked that a girl should fling herself at him, right at him.  Fancy her calling to-night!  It’s the sort of thing that oughtn’t to be encouraged.”

“But I understood you to say that you yourself had told him to see her home,” Simon Loggerheads put in.  “Isn’t that encouraging her, as it were?”

“Ah!” said Mary, with a smile.  “I only suggested it to him because it came over me all of a sudden how nice it would be to have you here all alone!  He can’t be back much before twelve.”

To such a remark there is but one response.  A sofa is, after all, made for two people, and the chance of the servant calling on them was small.