have the ghost of a chance if you are still unmarried when poor Maurice
dies!"

Michael bounded from his chair once more. He was perfectly
furious--furious with the situation--furious with the woman--furious
with himself.

"Confound it, Henry, I--know it--but it does not mend matters your
ranting there--and I am so sorry for the poor chap--Maurice, I mean--a
very decent fellow, poor Maurice! Can't you suggest any way out?"

Mr. Fordyce mused a moment, while he deliberately puffed smoke,
Michael's impatience increasing so that he ran his hands through his
dark, smooth hair, whose shiny, immaculate brushing was usually his
pride!

"Can't you suggest a way out?" he reiterated.

Mr. Fordyce did not reply--then after a moment: "You were always too
much occupied with women, Michael--from your first scrape when you left
Eton; and over this affair you have been a complete fool."

Michael was heard to swear again.

"You have been inconsistent, too, because you did not even employ your
usual ruthless methods of doing what you pleased with them. You have
simply drifted into allowing this vile creature's cobwebs to cling on to
your whole existence until you are almost paralyzed, and it seems to me
that an immediate marriage with someone else is your only way of escape.
Such a waste of your life! Just analyze the position. You have