I'm already married, you know. But if anyone _should_ ask, you're not
obliged to answer."

She looked troubled and uncertain. "You may be really married, after
all," she speculated. "Who knows? Poor old Roxbury wouldn't have had the
tact to inquire."

"I am a henpecked bachelor, believe me."

For the next quarter of an hour they chatted in the liveliest, most
inconsequential fashion, getting on excellent terms with each other and
arriving at a fair sense of appreciation of what lay ahead of them in
the shape of peril and adventure.

She was the most delightful person he had ever met, as well as being the
most beautiful. There was a sprightly, ever-growing air of self-reliance
about her that charmed and reassured him. She possessed the capacity for
divining the sane and the ridiculous with splendid discrimination.
Moreover, she could jest and be serious with an impartial intelligence
that gratified his vanity without in the least inspiring the suspicion
that she was merely clever. He became blissfully imbued with the idea
that she had surprised herself by the discovery that he was really quite
attractive. In fact, he was quite sincerely pleased with himself--for
which he may be pardoned if one stops to think how resourceful a woman
of tact may be if she is very, very pretty.

And, by way of further analogy, Brock was a thoroughly likable chap,
beside being handsome and a thoroughbred to the core. It's not betraying
a secret to affirm, cold-bloodedly, that Miss Fowler had not allied
herself with the enterprise until after she had pinned Roxbury down to