It was too late to back upstairs again and improvise upon my toilette,
for they both looked up and saw me at that moment. So there I stood,
like a stag at bay, with my nose unpowdered (Henry would say that a
stag doesn't powder its nose, but you will know what I mean) wearing my
dullest and most uninspired house-frock, and hurling silent anathemas
at my heartless husband.

You will now understand how useless Henry was as an ally in my
matrimonial plans for Marion. But I was doggedly determined that she
should make some man happy. At last, indeed, it seemed as though my
efforts were to be crowned with success when George Harbinger appeared
on the scene.

He took to her at once and said that she was just the sort of girl his
mother would like. He declared that Marion's oyster patties were
things of pure delight and ought to be eaten to slow music. (Yes, I
always got Marion to make some of her special pastry when the eligibles
came to dine.) He openly sought her society. They even played
draughts together and he always won. Everything was going splendidly.

I was especially satisfied, for George Harbinger was an estimable man.
He was an assessor, and entirely reliable. Indeed, I believe it would
be difficult to find an assessor who is not. When you read the police
court cases you find all sorts of professions and followings
represented in the charge sheets, from actors down to editors, but have
you ever heard of an assessor who defaulted, who committed bigamy,
arson, larceny, murder, or neglected to pay his income tax? No, you
have not. Also, you seldom hear of an unmarried assessor. They are
known to be such steady, dependable men that they are always snapped up