as the babe unborn.  She believed that not only is this world the best of all possible worlds, but that Bayswater is the best of all possible places in it.  So, though she was quite deaf to many of the chords in Tyson’s being, her soul responded instantly to the note of “town.”  And when she discovered that Tyson had met and, what is more, dined with her old friends the Blundell-Thompsons “of Bombay,” her satisfaction knew no bounds.

At any rate, Tyson had not been very long at Thorneytoft before Mrs. Wilcox found herself arguing with Mr. Wilcox.  She herself was impervious to argument, and owing to her rapt inconsequence it was generally difficult to tell what she would be at.  This time, however, she seemed to be defending Mr. Nevill Tyson from unkind aspersions.

“Of course, all young men are likely to be wild; but Mr. Tyson is not a young man.”

“Therefore Mr. Tyson is not likely to be wild.  Do you know you are guilty of the fallacy known to logicians as illicit process of the major?”

Mrs. Wilcox looked up in some alarm.  The term suggested anything from a court-martial to some vague impropriety.

“The Major?  Major who?” she inquired, deftly recovering her mental balance.  “Where is he?”

“Somewhere about the premises, I fancy,” said Mr. Wilcox, dryly.  When all argument failed he had still a chastened delight in mystifying the poor lady.

Mrs. Wilcox looked out of the window.  “Oh, I see; you mean Captain Stanistreet.”  She smiled; for where Captain Stanistreet was Mr. Nevill Tyson was not very far away.  Moreover, she was glad that she had on her nice ultramarine tea-gown with the green moire front. (They were wearing those colors in town that season.)

At Thorneytoft a few hours later Stanistreet’s tongue was running on as usual, when Tyson pulled him up with a jerk.  “Hold hard.  Do you know you’re talking about the future Mrs. Nevill Tyson?”

Stanistreet tried to keep calm, for he was poised on his waist across the edge of the billiard-table.  As it was, he lost his balance at the critical moment, and it ruined his stroke.  He looked at the cloth, then at his cue, with the puzzled air which people generally affect in these circumstances.

“Great Scott!” said he, “how did I manage that?”

The exclamation may or may not have referred to the stroke.

Tyson looked at his friend with a smile which suggested that he expected adverse criticism, and was prepared to deal temperately with it.

“Why not?” said he.

Stanistreet, however, said nothing.  He was absorbed in chalking the end of his cue.  His silence gave Tyson no chance; it left too much to the imagination.

“Have you any objection?”

“Well, isn’t the lady a little young for a fine old country gentleman like yourself?”

Tyson’s small blue eyes twinkled, for he prided himself on being able to take a joke at his own expense.  Still it was not exactly kind of Stanistreet to remind him of his mushroom growth.