“I think before you make any proposals of the kind you ought to consult Mrs. Dix,” said Sypher with a laugh.

“Or Zora.”

“Or Zora,” said Sypher.  “She came down by the same train as I did.  I told her the good news.  She was delighted.”

He did not inform Septimus that, for all her delight, Zora had been somewhat sceptical.  She loved Septimus, she admitted, but his effectuality in any sphere of human endeavor was unimaginable.  Could anything good come out of Nazareth?

About half an hour later the goddess herself arrived, shown in by Wiggleswick, who had been snatching the pipe of the over-driven by the front-gate.  She looked flushed, resolute, indignant, and, on seeing Sypher, she paused for a second on the threshold.  Then she entered.  Sypher took up his hat and stick.

“No, no.  You had better stay.  You may help us.  I suppose you know all about it.”

Septimus’s heart sank.  He knew what “it” meant.

“Yes, Sypher knows.  I told him.”

“But why didn’t you tell me, dear Septimus, instead of letting me hear of it from mother and Cousin Jane?  I don’t think it was loyal to me.”

“I forgot,” said Septimus in desperation.  “You see, I sometimes remember it and sometimes forget it.  I’m not used to getting married.  Wiggleswick has been married several times.  He was giving me a lot of advice this morning.”

“Anyhow, it’s true?” asked Zora, disregarding Wiggleswick.

“Oh, yes!  You see, my ungovernable temper—­”

“Your what?”

It was no use.  On receiving the announcement she looked just as he had expected her to look.  He tried to stammer out his catalogue of infamies, but failed.  She burst out laughing, and Sypher, who knew all and was anxiously wondering how to save the situation, laughed too.

“My poor, dear Septimus,” she said kindly, “I don’t believe a word of it.  The woman who couldn’t get on with you must be a virago.  I don’t care whether she’s my own sister or not, she is treating you abominably.”

“But, indeed she’s not,” pleaded poor Septimus.  “We’re the best of friends.  I really want to live like this.  I do.  I can’t live without Wiggleswick.  See how cosy and comfortable he makes me.”

Zora looked round, and the cosiness and comfort made her gasp.  Cobwebs hung from the old oak beams across the ceiling; a day or two’s ashes defiled the grate; the windows were splashed with mud and rain.  There were no curtains.  Her finger drawn along the green baize table-cloth revealed the dust.  A pair of silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece were stained an iridescent brown.  The mirror was fly-blown.  In the corner of the room a tray held the remains of the last meal, and a plate containing broken food had overflowed onto a neighboring chair.  An odd, uncleaned boot lay, like a frowsy, drunken visitor, on the floor.  The springs of the armchair on which she sat were broken.