“It’s murder, I tell you,” said one.
Whereupon I sat up and asked for brandy-and-water.
I should write no more, but it is only fair to explain how matters ultimately fell out. As a man of honour I offered my heart and hand to Primrose Robinson in due course; and she refused them! She admitted that she had loved me once, but even she drew the line at catalepsy, and she declined absolutely to marry a man who might fall into a trance at any moment. So her brother’s esoteric machinations on her behalf really defeated his own object. At least, thus it appeared to me. Providence seldom really fails, only it takes its own time, and from the point of view of a business man, is dilatory and too casual. Providence, in fact, exhibits those faults that attach to any monopoly.
Six months after these unparalleled events I met Robinson in the City, and he asked me to lunch with him, an invitation which I accepted, feeling it better to run no more risks. He talked of the past, and said:
“I suppose you thought that when dear Primrose declined you she gave you the true reason for so doing?”
“Yes,” I answered, “it struck me that Providence came in there.”
“Not at all,” he said. “She had found another and a better man. They were thrown together during the period of your temporary extinction. In his case it was love at first sight. A fine young fellow. I like him.”
“Who?” I asked with interest.