"A drastic measure, I admit," continued Barton, "but one which I should have considered justifiable, could I have foreseen the miscarriage of my other plan. You know my eldest sister, Emily?"
We bowed, for it was a duty to know Emily.
"And you know her eldest daughter, Emeline?"
We bowed again; it was a pleasure to know Emeline.
"Well," went on Barton, "it so happened that they were to dine that evening in the neighborhood, and I arranged with them to drop in upon me in an offhand way soon after their dinner, which was a small, informal one. I was convinced, you see, that Carhart could not fail to fall desperately in love with Emeline, which would have simplified affairs at once."
Of course, we both assented—I through civility, but Willoughby, as I fancied, with a somewhat heightened color.
"I presume you did not take Miss Emeline into your confidence," he said, a trifle stiffly.
"No," answered Barton, "but I have often wished since that I had been more frank. It's just the sort of thing she's good at."
Willoughby tossed his excellent cigar, half smoked, into the grate, with what appeared unnecessary violence.