"'Men, dying, make their wills,
But wives escape a work so sad;
Why should they make, the gentle dames,
What all their lives they've had?'"
"Bravo!" cried Milton Rhodes.
And I saw the angel, who, with the older man, was leading the way, turn and give us a curious look.
"And that," said Rhodes, "reminds me."
"Of what?"
"Who is the leader of this little party? Is it that man, or is it our angel?"
"I'd say the angel if I could only understand why she should be the leader."