since that I’m goin’ to marry a man wot’ll work with ‘is brain.  So cheer up, Miss Marryun, and come an’ ‘ave this nice glarss o’ stout I’ve brought in for you.’  She unscrewed the bottle as she spoke.  ’I always find that when things are at their worst, an’ you’re feelin’ real pipped like, a glarss o’ stout acts like magic.  Yes, it’s the right stuff, is stout.’

The situation was distinctly ludicrous.  Yet neither Marion nor I laughed.  We watched Elizabeth solemnly pouring out the stout, after which she handed it to Marion, who, though she ‘never touches’ anything alcoholic as a rule, took it and drank it off ‘like a lamb,’ as Elizabeth expressed it.

There was a pause.  Then the corners of Marion’s mouth ceased to droop.  She smiled.  I smiled.  Elizabeth smiled.

There was another pause.  ‘I think, Elizabeth,’ I remarked, ’I’ll have a glass—­just a small glass—­of stout myself.’

’You do right, ‘m.  I’ll fetch you a glass.’

‘And Elizabeth, if you’d care to have some——­’

’Thank you very much ’m, I did take the liberty of ‘avin’ a taste already, but a little drop more wouldn’t do me any ‘arm, as the sayin’ is.’

She went out.  Marion set down her glass and put away her pocket-handkerchief.  ‘How silly of me to worry about Mr. Harbinger,’ she said.  ‘After all, I suppose Fate never intended us for each other.’

I recognized in a flash that Elizabeth had succeeded where I had failed, and I was conscious of a certain admiration for her methods.  Yet at that moment no hint of subsequent events filtered into my mind; I did not suspect—­even dimly—­the possibilities of Elizabeth.

CHAPTER VI

Neither Elizabeth or Marion like William.  Of the two, Elizabeth is more tolerant towards him, merely commenting that ’she couldn’t abide his ways.’  Marion, however, views him with an antipathy entirely foreign to one of her gentle nature.  I think, in the light of what happened later, if she had only shown a little more forbearance towards him it might have simplified matters.

William is our friend.  He drops in to see us when he likes, sits with his feet on our mantelpiece, strews tobacco ash on the carpet, and always tells me which of my hats are the most unbecoming, so you can imagine what a close friend he is.  Though he does not stick any closer than a brother, he is equally as frank.  He likes Henry and tolerates me.  For the rest of the women in the world he has a strong objection.  Not that he is a misogynist; but he always holds that a woman interferes with a man’s life.  I often think that William would be all the better for a little judicious feminine interference.  He has, however, now got beyond the stage of redemption.

[Illustration:  Our Friend William.]

Home means nothing more to William than a comfortable ledge below the mantelpiece where he can put his feet, a carpet which will not spoil with tobacco ash, and a few tables and chairs scattered about just to hold a good supply of old magazines and newspapers handy for lighting his pipe.  He wears those shaggy, unbrushed-looking clothes which all good women abhor.  Worst of all, he is constantly getting imbued with new and fantastic ideas which cause him to live in a (quite unnecessary) ferment of enthusiasm.