He was a man of fifty, well made, and supremely well dressed.  He was tanned as befits a sportsman; on his face the absence of furrows created by the absence of thought was made up for by the fine wrinkles induced by poignant and continued anxiety about his material comforts.  In his figure the vigor of the athlete contended with the comfortable stoutness of the epicure.  He had left a discussion in which all his highest faculties had been roused, a discussion on the replenishing of the club’s cellar, and had come to speak to his future son-in-law, with satisfaction but without vital interest.  His manner was a perfect blending of reserve and cordiality.

“You will hardly expect a definite answer from me to-day, Mr. Riatt,” he said.  “You understand, I am sure, that knowing so little of you—­an only child, my daughter”—­He waved his hand, not manicured but most beautifully cared for.  Riatt noticed that in spite of these chilling sentences, Fenimer was soon composing a paragraph for the press, and advocating the setting of the date for the wedding early in April, as he himself was booked for a fishing-trip later.  He did this under the assumption that he was yielding to Riatt’s irresistible eagerness.  “You have an excellent advocate in Christine.  My daughter has always ruled me.  And now in my old age I am to lose her.  I had a long letter from her by the early mail, speaking of you in the highest terms.”  He smiled.  Riatt rose, and allowed him to return to the question of the club’s wines.

Something about this interview was more shocking to him than the cynicism of Nancy and Christine; Fenimer’s suave eagerness to hand his daughter over to a total stranger, did not amuse him as the women’s light talk had done.  He felt sorry for Christine and a little disgusted.  He wondered what that letter had really said.  Was Fenimer a conspirator, too, or only a willing dupe?

From the club he went to the jeweler’s and selected the most conspicuous diamond he could find.  Her friends should not miss the fact that she was engaged if a solitaire could prove it to them.  He ordered it sent to her, much to the surprise of the clerk, who pointed out that it was usual to present such things in person.

After this he went to his hotel and found a pile of letters had accumulated in his absence.

The first he opened was in a round childish hand with uncertain margins, and a final “e” on the word Hotel.

“Dear Cousin Max,” it said, “I do not know you, but Mamma says that you are going to marry Christine.  I think you are very lucky, and am glad you are bringing her into our family.  Victor and I love her.  She comes to the nursery sometimes, but never stays long.

“Your loving cousin,

“MURIEL USSHER.”

Riatt laughed as he laid it down.  “I bet she doesn’t stay long,” he said.  “How she does skim the cream!” And then with an exclamation of surprise he tore open another envelope which had been left by hand.  It said: