"Well, I _am_. You know how I loathe asking a favour of anyone.
Besides, it's rather an extraordinary one I'm going to ask of you. Came
to me in a flash this morning when I saw your name in the paper. Sort of
inspiration, 'pon my word. I think Edith sees it the same as I, although
I haven't had time to go into it thoroughly with her. She's ripping, you
know; pluck to the very core."

Brock's face expressed bewilderment and perplexity.

"Won't you have another drink, old man?" he asked gently.

"Another? Hang it all, I haven't had one in a week. Come along. I must
talk it all over with you before I introduce you to her. You must be
prepared."

"Introduce me to whom?" demanded Brock, pricking up his ears. He was
following Medcroft to the elevator.

"To my wife--Edith," said Medcroft, annoyed by the other's obtuseness.

"Does it require preparation for an ordeal so charming?" laughed Brock.
He was recalling the fact that Medcroft had married a beautiful
Philadelphia girl some years ago in London, a young lady whom he had
never seen, so thoroughly expatriated had she become in consequence of
almost a lifetime residence in England. He remembered now that she was
rich and that he had sent her a ridiculously expensive present and a
congratulatory cablegram at the time of the wedding. Also, it occurred
to him that the Medcrofts had asked him to visit them at their
shooting-box for several seasons in succession, and that their town