at once. Thus you can understand how pleased I was to get hold of
George.

One evening it seemed as though things were getting to a climax.
George had eaten four of Marion's oyster patties at dinner and, after
retaining her hand for an undue length of time at parting, asked if he
could see her alone if he called the following evening, as he had
something important to say to her.

Marion was in a flutter. She admitted that she 'rather liked' George.
(Your nice girl never says outright that she's keen on a man.) 'And
what do you think,' she confessed, 'he said when we were playing
draughts to-night that I was just the sort of girl his mother would
like, and--and----'

'Yes, go on,' I said tensely.

'That he never believed in a man marrying a girl of whom his mother did
not approve. What do you think he meant by that, dear?'

'Everything,' I said, and took a silent decision to leave no stone
unturned to bring the thing off all right. I planned to leave them
alone in the rose drawing-room with its pink-shaded lights--Marion
looks her best under pink-shaded lights. She was thirty-seven, but
only looked thirty when she had her hair waved and wore her grey
_charmeuse_.

I, myself, prepared her for the interview. I dressed her hair
becomingly and clasped my matrix necklace around her throat. Then,
soon after George arrived, I excused myself on the plea of having an