foolishness with my daughter."

"Yes, sir." O'Reilly felt that the moment had come for his
carefully rehearsed speech, but, unhappily, he could not remember
how the swan-song started. He racked his brain for the opening
words.

Mr. Carter, too, was unaccountably silent. He opened his lips,
then closed them. Both men, after an awkward pause, cleared their
throats in unison and eyed each other expectantly. Another moment
dragged past, then they chorused:

"I have an unpleasant--"

Each broke off at the echo of his own words.

"What's that?" inquired the importer.

"N-nothing. You were saying--"

"I was thinking how lucky it is that you and Elsa waited. Hm-m!
Very fortunate." Again Mr. Carter rearranged his desk fittings.
"She has deep feelings--got a conscience, too. Conscience is a
fine thing in a woman--so few of 'em have it. We sometimes differ,
Elsa and I, but when she sets her heart on a thing I see that she
gets it, even if I think she oughtn't to have it. What's the use
of having children if you can't spoil 'em, eh?" He looked up with
a sort of resentful challenge, and when his listener appeared to
agree with him he sighed with satisfaction. "Early marriages are
silly--but she seems to think otherwise. Maybe she's right.