"How?" asked Uncle Joseph, a little startled.
Mr. Mablethorpe waved his hand in the direction of the window.
"Partly from the presence of that board outside," he said, "and partly because, in the light of—of recent events, any other dénouement would have been an inartistic anticlimax, contrary to the canons of the best fiction."
Uncle Joseph surveyed his rather unusual visitor with interest.
"You appear to know something of men and women," he said.
"I have to," explained Mr. Mablethorpe. "I make a living by studying the weaknesses of mankind and publishing the results of my observations at four-and-sixpence net."
"A novelist, I gather."
"Yes, but of the obsolete school. I hate your morbid, soul-dissecting, self-centred pessimist like poison. I go in for happy endings and the eternal good in human nature. In this respect I rejoice to observe that you are not going to disappoint me."
Uncle Joseph's cold blue eyes glowed suddenly.
"No, thank God!" he said; "I am not."