‘Elizabeth,’ I interposed, ’we don’t want your advice.  Go away at once.’

‘I ain’t done yet.  You’ll be glad o’ my advice in the end.  Experience ‘elps a lot.  Some men wot’s goin’ to be married gets a sort o’ funk at the last minnit and, bless you, they’d wriggle out o’ it, yes, even if they was goin’ to marry an angel out o’ ’eaven.  My friend’s ’usband was one o’ them sort—­wanted to stop the ‘ole thing with the weddin’ cake ordered, an’ lodgings taken at Margate for the ’oneymoon.  But she ’eld ’im to it—­stuck to ‘im like grim death until’ e’d gone through with it.  An’ now ’e often ses ‘e never regrets it for a minnit.’

Marion looked up hopefully.  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Elizabeth.’

‘O’ course I’m right,’ she asserted, throwing a triumphant glance at me as she retired.

‘These tactics may be all very well for the lower classes,’ I said to Marion when we were alone, ’but I’m not quite sure whether they’d answer in every case.  No, Marion dear, if William wants to postpone the wedding, it must be done.’

Her face fell at once, and she looked so dejected I felt troubled.

’If you like I will talk to William and try to discover the reason for his change of plan,’ I conceded reluctantly, ’but you must understand, dear, that nothing will make me interfere with the natural course of events.’

Rather to my surprise, William touched on the subject the next time he came to see me.  We were sitting alone and I was mentally noting his air of depression, when he suddenly burst out:  ’Tell me, frankly, do you think a man is justified in—­er—­postponing a great event in his life—­such as, say, his wedding, if he feels uncertain?’

‘Uncertain about what?’ I asked gently.

’About himself—­and everything, you know.  True, Johnson has said that marriage is one of the means of happiness—­a sentiment delivered, no doubt, by the great master when he was in a light vein—­but supposing a man is not sure that he can make a woman happy——­’

’And supposing instead of the hypothetical man and woman you are speaking of, we simply quote the case of you and Marion,’ I interposed.  ‘Am I to understand that you do not wish to marry her?’

He started.  ’It isn’t exactly that.  But at the—­er—­time I—­er—­offered myself to Marion I had not weighed all the possibilities.  To be perfectly frank with you, I am not quite certain of my own affections.  I decided that, with companionship, these might develop after marriage.  But supposing they do not, then I shall have rendered her unhappy.  Is not the risk too great?’

He leaned forward and laid his hand on mine with an expression of great earnestness.  ‘In this matter,’ he said slowly, ’I intend to abide by your decision.  I have supreme faith in your judgment, and I do not believe you would advise me wrongly.  Tell me what I ought to do.  Do you think it is making for the happiness of two people if they are united under these peculiar circumstances?’