Well--that is the way I like to hear a young man talk. It was the
modern expression of the perfect gentle knight. In so far as went
his heart's intention and his soul's strength to assure it, I had
no fear for Betty's happiness. He gave it to her fully into her
own hands; whether she would throw it away or otherwise misuse it
was another matter.

Though I have ever loved women, en tout bien et tout honneur,
their ways have never ceased from causing me mystification. I
think I can size up a man, especially given such an opportunity as
I had in the case of Willie Connor--I have been more or less
trained in the business all my man's life; but Betty Fairfax, whom
I had known intimately for as many years as she could remember,
puzzled me exceedingly. I defy anyone to have picked a single
fault in her demeanour towards her husband of to-morrow. She lit a
cigarette for him in the most charming way in the world, and when
he guided the hand that held the match, she touched his crisp hair
lightly with the fingers of the other. She was all smiles. When we
met in the drawing-room, she retailed with a spice of mischief
much of Mrs. Marigold's advice. She had seated herself on the
music stool. Swinging round, she quoted:

"'Even the best husband,' she said, 'will go on swelling himself
up with vanity just because he's a man. A sensible woman, Miss,
lets him go on priding of himself, poor creature. It sort of helps
his dignity when the time comes for him to eat out of your hand,
and makes him think he's doing you a favour.'"

"When are you going to eat out of my hand, Willie?" she asked.