The older man sat limp in his chair, and stared until the ash of his cigar tumbled, untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it with uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes never left his nephew. He put the cigar once more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away.

“Boy––” he said, at length, “Boy––is that true?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, Uncle John.”

“Who is it? Anna Barklay?”

“Yes, Uncle John.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Does––Judge Barklay know it yet?”

“No, not yet. He’s out of town.”

His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and pulled himself upright. “Boy,” he said, “why in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like that?... Haven’t I been pretty decent to you, 15 the best I knew how?... Why’d you ever go, and––have I been mistaken in you all this while? Why, boy, I thought you and me were friends.”

There was another heavy silence. “I don’t know. It just happened. The way things do––sometimes. We’ve always been crazy about each other.”

Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through his nephew, who was man-grown and presumably a rational human being; but what Mr. Starkweather actually saw was the vision of a little boy dressed in Lord Fauntleroy velvet, with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar; and much as a drowning man is supposed to review, in a lightning flash, every incident of his whole life, so was Mr. Starkweather reviewing the life of Henry, beginning with the era of black velvet, and ending with the immediate present. That history was a continuous record of dashing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility; and yet, when the time came for an accounting, Henry had offered only explanations, and never excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as he had earned them; and even now, when he 16 was confessed of the most impetuous and the most astounding act of all his unballasted youth, he had nothing to say in defence. As a climax, marriage had “happened” to him, and he was braced for whatever might happen next.

Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of his daze, began to wonder if, by this very climax, Henry hadn’t prescribed his own medicine, and at the same time taken out insurance on his own salvation. For one thing, he had selected the right girl––a girl with no money, and plenty of character––a girl who would manage him so skilfully that Henry would think himself the manager. For another thing, Mr. Starkweather believed that Henry was profoundly in love with her, even though he tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it with a generous helping of light manner, and modern vocabulary. These facts, together with Mr. Starkweather’s control of the finances, might possibly operate as the twin levers which would pry Henry out of his improvidence. The levers themselves were certainly strong enough; it was a question only of Henry’s resistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to realize 17 that by the time the minute-hand of his watch had gone twice again around the dial, he should know definitely and permanently whether Henry was worth his powder, or not.

He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially. “I’m pretty much knocked edgeways, Henry––but tell me one more thing; this wasn’t any bet, was it, or––”

“Bet!” flared Henry, and all the youth went out of his features.

“Yes. Nobody dared you to go and get married––it wasn’t any kind of a put-up job, was it?”

The younger man was righteously indignant. “Uncle John, I admit I haven’t won any medals for––for some things,––and maybe you think I am the kind of bird that would––do this on a bet, or a dare––and if you do think that––I guess we’re both mistaken in each other!”

His uncle’s hand went up. “Hold your horses! You’ve answered the question. If you hadn’t got mad, I’d have thrown you out the window. Why did you do it, then?... No––never mind.” He looked away. “I know. Spring, and impulse and no emergency brakes. 18 I know....” He looked back at Henry, and smiled oddly. “And I was just goin’ to tell you, before you sprung it on me, that if you cared two cents about that girl,––and me, too,––you’d want to deserve her:––do somethin’ besides be a model to hang expensive clothes on.”

“Yes,” said Henry, also judicial. “I guess I’m entitled to that wallop.”

His uncle nodded. “That one and quite a few more. Still, you never heard anybody accuse me of not bein’ a good sport, did you?”

“No, Uncle John. I counted on it.”

“Who knows this––besides us?”

“Just Bob Standish. We took him along for a witness.”

“So! Bob Standish! Hm. I’d have thought Bob’d had sense enough to try to stop it. I’ll have words with him.”

“He did try.”

Mr. Starkweather rose. “Where’s Anna?”

“Out in the car. With Bob.”

His uncle froze. “Out there? Waitin’ there all this time? For Heaven’s sake, Henry, she’ll be in a conniption fit! You go bring her in here––and tell her to stop worryin’. I’m 19 sore as the devil, and I’m goin’ to make an example out of you, but that ain’t any reason to act like a grouch, is it? Sound sensible to you? Bring her in here. Not Bob––I’ll see him afterwards.”

She was small and intensely feminine, but there was nothing fragile about her, and no slightest hint of helplessness. She was pretty enough, too, and her attractions were more than skin-deep; to the qualities which showed in her eyes––sincerity and humour and imagination––there was also to be added sweetness of disposition and sensitiveness, which were proved by the curves of her mouth; and finally, there was quiet determination, stopping just short of stubbornness, which was evident in the moulding of her strong little chin.

She came in slowly, questioningly, not in fear, but merely poised so as to adjust herself to any style of reception. Mr. Starkweather met her eyes and laughed––a fat, spontaneous, understanding laugh––and blushing furiously, she 20 ran to him, with both her hands outstretched.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Starkweather, and interrupted himself long enough to kiss her, “I’ll say Henry’s got a darned sight better judgment ’n you have.... Go on and blush. Make a good job of it. Ashamed of yourself? So ’m I. Sit down there and cringe. You too, Henry.” He himself remained on his feet. “Funny thing,” he said, after a pause. “Only chance I ever had to get married myself was somethin’ like this is––oh, I wasn’t a gilt loafer, like Henry is; I was workin’ sixteen hours a day, but I wasn’t makin’ money enough. Both our fathers said so. And she’d have run off, but I wouldn’t. Thought it wasn’t respectable, I guess. Anyhow, it kind of petered out, and I lost my nerve. Wish to thunder I’d taken a chance when I had it. Worth it, sometimes.” He whirled on Henry, abruptly. “Well, you took your chance. Now let’s see if you think it’s worth it. If you’re figurin’ on any help from me, you got to work for it first. If you’d waited, I’d kind of made things easy for you. Now, I’m goin’ to hand you the meanest job I can think of. It won’t be an insult and it won’t 21 be a joke, but maybe you’ll take it for both––until you learn better.”

“What is it, Uncle John?”

“I’ll tell you when you get back from your honeymoon.”

The two young people stared at each other, and at Mr. Starkweather. “From our––what?” asked the girl, incredulously.

“Honeymoon. Oh, you made a couple of prize fools of yourselves, and if I did what I ought to, I’d cut Henry off sharp this minute. But––guess I better make a fool of myself, so you’ll feel more at home.” He coughed explosively. “Besides, you’re awful young, both of you––and damn it, if you don’t cash in on it now, next thing you know you’ll be wonderin’ where the time’s gone, anyway. No sense in robbin’ you of the best months of your life, just because you hadn’t sense enough to rob yourselves of it––is there? Oh, I suppose I’m a kind of a sentimental cuss, but––must be I like the feelin’ of it.” He jerked his head toward Henry. “This is April. Take her off somewhere––Italy? South of France?––’till next August. Then you report back here, all fixed 22 and ready to eat crow. Sound fair to you?”

The girl rose, and crossed the room to him. “Mr. Starkweather––”

“Name’s Uncle John,” he corrected. “You married it.”

“Uncle John––I––I don’t know how to––” She bit her lip, and he saw the depths of her eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears. She gestured imperatively to Henry. “You know him better––you tell him.”

Henry had sprung across to join them. “Uncle John, you’re a peach! I’ll break rock on the streets if you say so! You’re a peach!”

“Well,” said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably. “If everybody else’s goin’ to bawl, I guess it’ll have to be contagious.... Only when you get back, you’re both goin’ to pay the piper. I’m goin’ to make Henry earn his salt, whether he’s got it in him or not; I’m goin’ to make him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; no foolin’.... Look here, don’t you want me to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I can put it up to him in writin’ twice as good as Henry put it up to me by talkin’, anyhow.... And I’ll put an announcement in the 23 Herald that’ll take the cuss off. Anna, you hustle up some engraved notices to get around to all our friends. You know what’s in style.... Oh, you’re a couple of champion idiots, and Henry’s goin’ to sweat for it when he comes home, but––God bless you, my boy, and you too, my dear––only how in blazes am I goin’ to get it across to Mirabelle? That’s what bites me the worst, Henry; that’s what bites me the worst!”