He has a friend, or rather an acquaintance, an old school-fellow, who
has developed into one of those curious social flies that in all ages
are to be met with buzzing contentedly within the most exclusive
circles, and concerning whom, seeing that they are neither rare nor
rich, nor extraordinarily clever nor well born, one wonders "how the
devil they got there!" Meeting this man by chance one afternoon, he
links his arm in his and invites him home to dinner.

So soon as they are left alone, with the walnuts and wine between
them, John Ingerfield says, thoughtfully cracking a hard nut between
his fingers -

"Will, I'm going to get married."

"Excellent idea--delighted to hear it, I'm sure," replies Will,
somewhat less interested in the information than in the delicately
flavoured Madeira he is lovingly sipping. "Who's the lady?"

"I don't know, yet," is John Ingerfield's answer.

His friend glances slyly at him over his glass, not sure whether he
is expected to be amused or sympathetically helpful.

"I want you to find one for me."

Will Cathcart puts down his glass and stares at his host across the
table.

"Should be delighted to help you, Jack," he stammers, in an alarmed