“Tut, tut,” said the lawyer, waving that aside.  “No.  There are two courses to pursue.  And they’re not alternative, but simultaneous.  You shut down the inn—­at once, to-morrow—­that’s Saturday.  Close on Saturday, and give notice you don’t re-open—­now pray let me finish—­close the inn as an inn, and use it simply as a private residence.  Then, as quick as may be, marry those girls.”

“Marry what girls?”

“The Miss von Twinklers.”

Mr. Twist stared at him.  “Marry them?” he said helplessly.  “Marry them who to?”

“You for one.”

Mr. Twist stared at him in silence.  Then he said, “You’ve said that to me before.”

“Yep.  And I’ll say it again.  I’ll go on saying it till you’ve done it.”

“’Well, if that’s all you’ve got to offer as a suggestion for a way out—­”

But Mr. Twist wasn’t angry this time; he was too much battered by events; he hadn’t the spirits to be angry.

“You’ve—­got to—­marry—­one—­of—­those—­girls,” said the lawyer, at each word smiting the table with his open palm.  “Turn her into an American.  Get her out of this being a German business.  And be able at the same time to protect the one who’ll be your sister in-law.  Why, even if you didn’t want to, which is sheer nonsense, for of course any man would want to—­I know what I’m talking about because I’ve seen them—­it’s your plain duty, having got them into this mess.”

“But—­marry which?” asked Mr. Twist, with increased helplessness and yet a manifest profound anxiety for further advice.

For the first time the lawyer showed impatience “Oh—­either or both,” he said.  “For God’s sake don’t be such a—­”

He pulled up short.

“I didn’t quite mean that,” he resumed, again calm.  “The end of that sentence was, as no doubt you guess, fool.  I withdraw it, and will substitute something milder.  Have you any objection to ninny?”

No, Mr. Twist didn’t mind ninny, or any other word the lawyer might choose, he was in such a condition of mental groping about.  He took out his handkerchief and wiped away the beads on his forehead and round his mouth.

“I’m thirty-five,” he said, looking terribly worried.

Propose to an Anna?  The lawyer may have seen them, but he hadn’t heard them; and the probable nature of their comments if Mr. Twist proposed to them—­to one, he meant of course, but both would comment, the one he proposed to and the one he didn’t—­caused his imagination to reel.  He hadn’t much imagination; he knew that now, after his conduct of this whole affair, but all there was of it reeled.

“I’m thirty-five,” he said helplessly.

“Pooh,” said the lawyer, indicating the negligibleness of this by a movement of his shoulder.

“They’re seventeen,” said Mr. Twist.

“Pooh,” said the lawyer again, again indicating negligibleness.  “My wife was—­”

“I know.  You told me that last time.  Oh, I know all that” said Mr. Twist with sudden passion.  “But these are children.  I tell you they’re children—­”