“She says,” proceeded Mr. Brewster, referring to the letter again, “that they were both so much in love that they simply had to slip off and get married, and she hopes I won’t be cross.  Cross!” gasped Mr. Brewster, gazing wildly at his friend.

“Very disturbing!”

“Disturbing!  You bet it’s disturbing!  I don’t know anything about the fellow.  Never heard of him in my life.  She says he wanted a quiet wedding because he thought a fellow looked such a chump getting married!  And I must love him, because he’s all set to love me very much!”

“Extraordinary!”

Mr. Brewster put the letter down.

“An Englishman!”

“I have met some very agreeable Englishmen,” said Professor Binstead.

“I don’t like Englishmen,” growled Mr. Brewster.  “Parker’s an Englishman.”

“Your valet?”

“Yes.  I believe he wears my shirts on the sly,’” said Mr. Brewster broodingly, “If I catch him—!  What would you do about this, Binstead?”

“Do?” The professor considered the point judiciary.  “Well, really, Brewster, I do not see that there is anything you can do.  You must simply wait and meet the man.  Perhaps he will turn out an admirable son-in-law.”

“H’m!” Mr. Brewster declined to take an optimistic view.  “But an Englishman, Binstead!” he said with pathos.  “Why,” he went on, memory suddenly stirring, “there was an Englishman at this hotel only a week or two ago who went about knocking it in a way that would have amazed you!  Said it was a rotten place!  My hotel!”

Professor Binstead clicked his tongue sympathetically.  He understood his friend’s warmth.

CHAPTER III

MR. BREWSTER DELIVERS SENTENCE

At about the same moment that Professor Binstead was clicking his tongue in Mr. Brewster’s sitting-room, Archie Moffam sat contemplating his bride in a drawing-room on the express from Miami.  He was thinking that this was too good to be true.  His brain had been in something of a whirl these last few days, but this was one thought that never failed to emerge clearly from the welter.

Mrs. Archie Moffam, nee Lucille Brewster, was small and slender.  She had a little animated face, set in a cloud of dark hair.  She was so altogether perfect that Archie had frequently found himself compelled to take the marriage-certificate out of his inside pocket and study it furtively, to make himself realise that this miracle of good fortune had actually happened to him.

“Honestly, old bean—­I mean, dear old thing,—­I mean, darling,” said Archie, “I can’t believe it!”

“What?”

“What I mean is, I can’t understand why you should have married a blighter like me.”

Lucille’s eyes opened.  She squeezed his hand.

“Why, you’re the most wonderful thing in the world, precious!—­ Surely you know that?”