I was especially satisfied, for George Harbinger was an estimable man.  He was an assessor, and entirely reliable.  Indeed, I believe it would be difficult to find an assessor who is not.  When you read the police court cases you find all sorts of professions and followings represented in the charge sheets, from actors down to editors, but have you ever heard of an assessor who defaulted, who committed bigamy, arson, larceny, murder, or neglected to pay his income tax?  No, you have not.  Also, you seldom hear of an unmarried assessor.  They are known to be such steady, dependable men that they are always snapped up at once.  Thus you can understand how pleased I was to get hold of George.

One evening it seemed as though things were getting to a climax.  George had eaten four of Marion’s oyster patties at dinner and, after retaining her hand for an undue length of time at parting, asked if he could see her alone if he called the following evening, as he had something important to say to her.

Marion was in a flutter.  She admitted that she ‘rather liked’ George.  (Your nice girl never says outright that she’s keen on a man.) ’And what do you think,’ she confessed, ’he said when we were playing draughts to-night that I was just the sort of girl his mother would like, and—­and——­’

‘Yes, go on,’ I said tensely.

’That he never believed in a man marrying a girl of whom his mother did not approve.  What do you think he meant by that, dear?’

‘Everything,’ I said, and took a silent decision to leave no stone unturned to bring the thing off all right.  I planned to leave them alone in the rose drawing-room with its pink-shaded lights—­Marion looks her best under pink-shaded lights.  She was thirty-seven, but only looked thirty when she had her hair waved and wore her grey charmeuse.

I, myself, prepared her for the interview.  I dressed her hair becomingly and clasped my matrix necklace around her throat.  Then, soon after George arrived, I excused myself on the plea of having an article to write—­which was perfect truth—­and left them alone together.

Doesn’t it give you a feeling of contentment when you have done a good action?  You are permeated with a sort of glow which comes from within.  After closing the drawing-room door on Marion and George, I sat down to work in an atmosphere of righteousness.  I could almost imagine there must be the beginnings of a faint luminous disc around my head.

The subject of the article I now began to write was ’Should Women Propose?’ Treading carefully on the delicate ground of the Woman’s Page, I decided that they must do nothing that is so utterly unfeminine.  ’But there are many subtle little ways in which a woman can convey to a man her preference for him,’ I penned, ’without for a moment overstepping the bounds of that maidenly reticence which is one of the charms of——­’

The door opened and Elizabeth entered.  Elizabeth has a way of entering when I am most likely to lose the thread of my sentence.