"Why, we—er—really, Mr. Bingle," began Flanders, "we thought we'd wait until we see how the piece gets over and then—" He looked to the embarrassed Miss Fairweather for help.
"If everything goes well, Mr. Bingle," she said, nervously, "we sha'n't hesitate an instant. Of course, if it is a failure, we'll—well, it really would be wise to wait for a little while until—"
"That's just the thing I want to get at," said Mr. Bingle. "Don't put it off, my friends. Get married here, Miss Fairweather, to-morrow, next day. I am your friend, and yours, Dick. My wedding present shall be—well, I must ask you to leave it to me. I love you both. You have meant a great deal to me. There is nothing I would not do for you, nothing I would not shield you from if it lay in my power to do so. So, I ask you, my friends, to be married here in my house before—" Emotion choked him. He had been standing near the window at the beginning of his disjointed remarks. As they progressed, he approached them with his hands extended.
The young couple grasped his hands and Flanders spoke.
"We can't do it, Mr. Bingle. It is out of the question. I'm sorry—terribly sorry. You are a corker, sir. I—"
"For goodness' sake," began Mr. Bingle, imploringly.
"We would jump at the chance, Mr. Bingle, to be married here, if it were not for one thing," went on Flanders, and then looked at Miss Fairweather.
"And what in the world can that be?" cried Mr. Bingle.
"We were married two months ago, Mr. Bingle," said Mrs. Richard Flanders guiltily.
It was some time before they could make him believe it. She revealed her wedding ring—suspended about her neck—and then Mr. Bingle kissed her very soberly and with tears in his eyes.