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‘Well, if there is no harm from it what are you talking about and why am I immoral?’

I hesitated, laughing. ‘I retract–you are sane and clear. I am sure she thinks there won’t be any harm,’ I added. ‘That’s the great point.’

‘The great point?’

‘I mean, to be settled.’

‘Mercy, we are not trying them! How can we settle it?’

‘I mean of course in our minds. There will be nothing more interesting for the next ten days for our minds to exercise themselves upon.’

‘They will get very tired of it,’ said Mrs. Nettlepoint.

‘No, no, because the interest will increase and the plot will thicken. It can’t help it.’ She looked at me as if she thought me slightly Mephistophelean, and I went on–‘So she told you everything in her life was dreary?’

‘Not everything but most things. And she didn’t tell me so much as I guessed it. She’ll tell me more the next time. She will behave properly now about coming in to see me; I told her she ought to.’

‘I am glad of that,’ I said. ‘Keep her with you as much as possible.’

‘I don’t follow you much,’ Mrs. Nettlepoint replied, ‘but so far as I do I don’t think your remarks are in very good taste.’

‘I’m too excited, I lose my head, cold-blooded as you think me. Doesn’t she like Mr. Porterfield?’

‘Yes, that’s the worst of it.’

‘The worst of it?’

‘He’s so good–there’s no fault to be found with him. Otherwise she would have thrown it all up. It has dragged on since she was eighteen: she became engaged to him before he went abroad to study. It was one of those childish muddles which parents in America might prevent so much more than they do. The thing is to insist on one’s daughter’s waiting, on the engagement’s being long; and then after you have got that started to take it on every occasion as little seriously as possible–to make it die out. You can easily tire it out. However, Mr. Porterfield has taken it seriously for some years. He has done his part to keep it alive. She says he adores her.’

‘His part? Surely his part would have been to marry her by this time.’

‘He has absolutely no money.’

‘He ought to have got some, in seven years.’

‘So I think she thinks. There are some sorts of poverty that are contemptible. But he has a little more now. That’s why he won’t wait any longer. His mother has come out, she has something–a little–and she is able to help him. She will live with them and bear some of the expenses, and after her death the son will have what there is.’

‘How old is she?’ I asked, cynically.

‘I haven’t the least idea. But it doesn’t sound very inspiring. He has not been to America since he first went out.’

‘That’s an odd way of adoring her.’

‘I made that objection mentally, but I didn’t express it to her. She met it indeed a little by telling me that he had had other chances to marry.’

‘That surprises me,’ I remarked. ‘And did she say that she had had?’

‘No, and that’s one of the things I thought nice in her; for she must have had. She didn’t try to make out that he had spoiled her life. She has three other sisters and there is very little money at home. She has tried to make money; she has written little things and painted little things, but her talent is apparently not in that direction. Her father has had a long illness and has lost his place–he was in receipt of a salary in connection with some waterworks–and one of her sisters has lately become a widow, with children and without means. And so as in fact she never has married any one else, whatever opportunities she may have encountered, she appears to have just made up her mind to go out to Mr. Porterfield as the least of her evils. But it isn’t very amusing.’