“No?” said Mrs. Hignett.
Bream began again.
“I’m not a man who gossips with servants.”
“No?”
“I’m not a man who….”
Mrs. Hignett was never a very patient woman.
“Let us take all your negative qualities for granted,” she said curtly. “I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment, that you wish to see me about?”
“This marriage.”
“What marriage?”
“Your son’s marriage.”
“My son is not married.”
“No, but he’s going to be. At eleven o’clock this morning at the Little Church Round the Corner!”
Mrs. Hignett stared.
“Are you mad?”
“Well, I’m not any too well pleased, I’m bound to say,” admitted Mr. Mortimer. “You see, darn it all, I’m in love with the girl myself!”
“Who is this girl?”
“Have been for years. I’m one of those silent, patient fellows who hang around and look a lot, but never tell their love….”
“Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?”
“I’ve always been one of those men who….”
“Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd story….”
“Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet, who had it from her maid, and, though I’m not a man who gossips with servants, I’m bound to say….”
“Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry?”
“I don’t know that I’d call him misguided,” said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair, “I think he’s a right smart picker! She’s such a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I’ve loved her for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I’m not one of these smooth, dashing guys, you see, with a great line of talk. I’m not….”
“If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry.”
“Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I haven’t! It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does. I’m the sort of man…”
“What is her name?”
“Bennett.”
“Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father’s house?”
“That’s it. You’re a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing.”
“I intend to.”
“Fine!”
“The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane.”
“That’s right. I’ve noticed it myself.”
“Their auras are not the same colour.”
“If I’ve thought that once,” said Bream Mortimer, “I’ve thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it. Not the same colour! That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”
“I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps.”
“That’s good! But what’s the procedure? How are you going to form a flying-wedge and buck-centre? It’s getting late. She’ll be waiting at the church at eleven. With bells on,” said Mr. Mortimer.
“Eustace will not be there.”
“You think you can fix it?”
“Eustace will not be there,” repeated Mrs. Hignett.
Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair.
“Well, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.”
