"Then in that case shall we call it off?"
He rose and picked up an evening paper.
She tried the resource of tears. The spectacle of a handsome woman weeping had brought him temporarily to his senses once before. But this time, though his manner was as kind as any widow could desire, his words brought the unfortunate lady no more consolation than his conduct.
"My dear Madge, just look at the thing sensibly. Surely you are old enough by this time to take a practical view of what after all is a very simple situation. You laid down the law yourself not five minutes ago, and laid it down very justly. If two people are unsuitably mated, the engagement should be broken off. Very well; just try to realize for a moment what it means to marry a man who is getting fuller and fuller of beans all the time—at your age, mark you. The fact is, we are just like two trains rushing in opposite directions. For a moment we may be side by side, and then—whit!—we have passed each other and are getting a couple of miles farther apart every minute."
Even this graphic allegory failed to dry her tears.
"You are deserting me—you are breaking my heart!" she wailed.
"Hush, hush," he answered soothingly; "on the contrary, I am sparing you—sparing you no end of anxiety."
She looked at him like a tragedy queen.
"Have you no thought of how my reputation will suffer, Heriot?"
"How can it suffer? Nobody knows we've been engaged."