“Brace up, old chap.  I’m going to take you around to the Ritz at once to introduce you to my wife—­to your wife, I might say.  She’ll be waiting for us, and, take my word for it, she’s in for the game.  She appreciates its importance.  Come now, Brock, it means so little to you, and it means everything to me.  You will do this for me?  For us?”

For ten minutes Brock protested, his argument growing weaker and weaker as the true humour of the project developed in his mind.  He came at last to realise that Medcroft was in earnest, and that the situation was as serious as he pictured it.  The Englishman’s plea was unusual, but it was not as rattle-brained as it had seemed at the outset.  Brock was beginning to see the possibilities that the ruse contained; to say the least, he would be running little or no risk in the event of its miscarriage.  In spite of possible unpleasant consequences, there were the elements of a rare lark in the enterprise; he felt himself being skilfully guided past the pitfalls and dangers.

“I shall insist upon talking it over thoroughly with Mrs. Medcroft before consenting,” he said in the end.  “If she’s being bluffed into the game, I’ll revoke like a flash.  If she’s keen for the adventure, I’ll go, Rox.  But I’ve got to see her first and talk it all over—­”

“’Pon my word, old chap, she’s ripping, awfully good sort, even though I say it myself.  She’s true blue, and she’ll do anything for me.  You see, Brock,” and his voice grew very tender, “she loves me.  I’m sure of her.  There isn’t a nobler wife in the world than mine.  Nor a prettier one, either,” he concluded, with fine pride in his eyes.  “You won’t be ashamed of her.  You will be proud of the chance to point her out as your wife, take my word for it.”  Then they set out for the Ritz.

“Roxbury,” said Brock soberly, when they were in the Rue de la Paix, after walking two blocks in contemplative silence, “my peace of mind is poised at the brink of an abyss.  I have a feeling that I am about to chuck it over.”

“Nonsense.  You’ll buck up when Edith has had a fling at you.”

“I suppose I’m to call her Edith.”

“Certainly, and I won’t mind a ‘dear’ or two when it seems propitious.  It’s rather customary, you know, even among the unhappily married.  Of course, I’ve always been opposed to kissing or caressing in public; it’s so middle-class.”

“And I daresay Mrs. Medcroft will object to it in private,” lamented Brock good-naturedly.

“I daresay,” said her husband cheerfully.  “She’s your wife in public only.  By the way, you’ll have to get used to the name of Roxbury.  Don’t look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when she says, ‘Roxbury, dear!’ I shan’t be there, you know.  She’ll mean you.  Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at the confident conspirator, “will I have to wear a suit of clothes like that, and an eyeglass, and—­and—­good Lord! spats?”