At dinner that evening, Melanie was sounded as to the memorial, but Melanie had her own affairs in hand. When a girl is within a few days of her marriage, she can't concentrate on outside questions such as this, no matter how humane she may be.

She was an odd girl, with no romance showing, whatever there might be underneath. Her eyes were incapable of surprise; her mind of wonder. It is a great loss, and too many girls seem to be suffering from it. In speech she was candid; in hearing, careless; very particular that you should not misunderstand her, but not in the least worried by the chance of misunderstanding you—often, indeed, not listening to replies at all.

These are not qualities that on the face of them make for the happiest unions, but along with them Melanie had a great sense of duty, and one never knows how a girl may develop after marriage. Men and husbands are not so widely different; but girls and brides can be divided by such a gulf as to be almost strangers. A girl passing under her lover's glamour can emerge a changed being.

"We had a bit of a shindy to-day, Guy and I," said Melanie. "Over the ring. He wants me to have a wedding ring and I refused. I can't bear the things. They make me shudder. It's bad enough to go to church with him and endure that disgusting service, without being branded for ever more with a gold band. It's only one remove from the ring in the bull's nose. I'm no more Guy's wife because I've got it than I should be without it. If I agree to marry him, I marry him. A very unbecoming piece of metal on my hand can't make the difference, not to a decent woman."

"It was a new idea to Guy, I expect," said Ben.

"Absolutely," said Melanie. "He seemed thunderstruck."

"He's not so advanced as you," said Ben. "And I expect he was perplexed, because you don't mind wearing an engagement ring."

"That's different," said Melanie. "It's beautiful. There's some reason for that. But even that I don't wear on the ordinary finger. Why should all the world know I'm engaged? Guy doesn't wear a ring to advertise the fact; why should I?"

"He probably would if you asked him," said Ben. "And he'd wear a wedding ring too. He'd be proud to."

"Don't you think I'm right?" Melanie asked.

"No, I don't," said Ben. "Apart altogether from the fact that Guy is my brother, I don't think it's fair to either of you. Take your honeymoon, for example. I don't know where you're going, but probably to some hotel. The first thing the people at the desk look at is your left hand, and if there's no wedding ring on it your character has gone completely, and Guy's is not what it might be."

"But who cares what anyone else thinks?" Melanie asked.

"All of us," said Ben, "in one way or another. But this is a case where both of you ought to agree. If Guy took your attitude about wedding rings, I shouldn't have a word to say; but as he objects, I think you ought to give way."

"Confound your cold common sense," said Melanie. "I will think about it. But this public flaunting of one's bondage is hateful."

"You may not think it bondage later on," said Ben. "If you don't, you're all right. If you're going to for ever, I wish you'd break the whole thing off at this moment."

Melanie left her chair, and, going over to Ben, gave her a light kiss on her hair.

"Don't worry," she said.

It was more reassuring than any other woman's oath on the Good Book.

After dinner Ben carried the problem to Uncle Paul, whom she found looking utterly miserable.

"My dear!" said Ben. "You're not ill, are you? You frighten me."

"No," said Uncle Paul weakly. "I'm not bodily ill. But life is a blank—they're cleaning out the Round Pond."

Ben put the matter before him.

"As step-aunt," she said, "doesn't mind what she spends, isn't this a gorgeous opportunity to do something really worth doing? And she's so absurdly amenable, ready to take advice. Just like putty. There never was such a chance to be really useful.

"So many things," she continued, "begin well and then decline. Village reading-rooms, with stone tablets in the wall saying in whose honour they were built, are opened with a great flourish, and the next time you go there they are closed and the windows broken. Clubs and institutes the same. But we can provide against all that. It mustn't be enough just to build; there must be endowment, and responsible caretakers or managers, for whatever we do.

"I suppose," she continued, "as a matter of fact, country people don't want Village institutes; they want the village pump. That's where they really enjoy meeting and talking."

"Some friends of mine," said Uncle Paul, "made a beautiful garden in their village, as a memorial. A lawn in the midst for the children to play on, and seats and shelters all round for the old people. And flowers. All properly looked after. That was a really good idea."

"I like that," said Ben. "But there might be something more costly too. I shall go on thinking. And I'll ask Mr. St. Quentin."