conclusion that it could not be done. Melancholy on this maddest,
merriest day of all the glad New Year, the day on which he had
utterly routed the powers of evil, as represented by Sir Thomas, was
impossible. He decided, rather, on a let-us-be-reasonable attitude.
'It wouldn't have done, don't you know,' he said. 'We weren't
suited. What I mean to say is, I'm a bit of a dashed sort of silly
ass in some ways, if you know what I mean. A girl like Miss
McEachern couldn't have been happy with me. She wants one of these
capable, energetic fellers.'
This struck him as a good beginning--modest, but not groveling. He
continued, tapping quite a respectably deep vein of philosophy as he
spoke.
'You see, dear old top--I mean, sir, you see, it's like this. As far
as women are concerned, fellers are divided into two classes.
There's the masterful, capable Johnnies, and the--er--the other
sort. Now, I'm the other sort. My idea of the happy married life is
to be--well, not exactly downtrodden, but--you know what I mean--
kind of second fiddle. I want a wife--' his voice grew soft and
dreamy--'who'll pet me a good deal, don't you know, stroke my hair a
lot, and all that. I haven't it in me to do the master-in-my-own-
house business. For me, the silent-devotion touch. Sleeping on the
mat outside her door, don't you know, when she wasn't feeling well,
and being found there in the morning and being rather cosseted for
my thoughtfulness. That's the sort of idea. Hard to put it quite O.
K., but you know the sort of thing I mean. A feller's got to realize
his jolly old limitations if he wants to be happy though married,
what? Now, suppose Miss McEachern was to marry me! Great Scott,
she'd be bored to death in a week. Honest! She couldn't help
herself. She wants a chap with the same amount of go in him that
she's got.'
He lighted another cigarette. He was feeling pleased with himself.
Never before had ideas marshaled themselves in his mind in such long
and well-ordered ranks. He felt that he could go on talking like
this all night. He was getting brainier every minute. He remembered
reading in some book somewhere of a girl (or chappie) who had had
her (or his) 'hour of clear vision.' This was precisely what had
happened now. Whether it was owing to the excitement of what had
taken place that night, or because he had been keying up his
thinking powers with excellent dry champagne, he did not know. All
he knew was that he felt on top of his subject. He wished he had had
a larger audience.
'A girl like Miss McEachern doesn't want any of that hair-stroking
business. She'd simply laugh at a feller if he asked for it. She
needs a chappie of the get-on-or-get-out type, somebody in the six
cylinder class. And, as a matter of fact, between ourselves, I
rather think she's found him.'
'What!'
Mr. McEachern half rose from his chair. All his old fears had come
surging back.
