that much."

"Whose happiness?"

"It doesn't matter. Nobody's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, you
may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in
doing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should
be inquisitive beyond that."

"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you
ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to
think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and
question--"

"Well, you may rest assured there's nothing dishonorable in this
particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon
my word, you don't flatter me!"

"Don't be angry, dear. If you're really _sure_ it's all right--"

"_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had
asked somebody else! It isn't too late--"

Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand.

"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's nobody will serve
you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can
handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say;
writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has
something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start