"Cousin Fenella, does history bore you?"
"It must be a very short lesson, please."
"A few minutes is enough. Years ago, then, cousin, in certain parts of Italy, when a bride was starting her new life, besides the usual stuff about pin-money, settlements, etcetera, the marriage contract contained another clause that seems to our insular minds intensely shocking. You'd never guess what it provided for."
"If it's shocking, I'd best not try."
His mouth twitched. "Baldly, then, one friend—neither more nor less. A third partner in the terrestrial paradise. Seems rather a scandalous person, doesn't he?"
"I think so."
Lumsden lit a cigar. "And yet"—puff! puff!—"the more one thinks of him the more reasonable he becomes. Men were so busy in those days, cousin. Fighting, don't you know—treaty making—in prison for indefinite periods. Don't you see with how much easier mind the soldier or diplomatic or captive husband must have laid his head on his lonely pillow for knowing there was a stout arm, ready blade, keen wit at home, authorized to keep marauders off. Do you wonder why I'm telling you all this?"
"To frighten me, perhaps."
"Pshaw! I know better than that. Come! put prejudice aside. Remember, too, that his name was probably the worst thing about him. Some poor relative, unrewarded soldier, I always imagine him—generally a cousin, by the way. Still wondering?"
No answer.