"He's not quite made up his mind yet, Vicar. Perhaps you can persuade him to it."
"But it is an honour—n'est-ce pas? To attend so beautiful a bride to the altar—"
"Well, you see, the fact is—Mr. Pixley would have preferred reversing the positions. He would like to have been bridegroom and me to be best man."
"Ah—so! Well, it is not surprising—"
"Moreover, he would like to stop the wedding now if he could—"
"Ach, non! That is not possible," said the Vicar wrathfully, the southern blood blazing in his face. "What would you do, my good sir, and why?"
"Miss Brandt is my father's ward," said Pixley sturdily. "My father objects to this marriage. He has sent me over to stop it."
"I understand," said the Vicar. "He wished his ward to marry you, but Miss Brandt made her own choice, which she had a perfect right to do, and, ma foi—" leaning back in his chair and regarding the two faces in front of him, he did not finish his sentence in words, but contented himself with cryptic nods whose meaning, we may hope, was lost upon Charles Svendt's amour propre.
"And what would you do?" asked the Vicar presently.
"Well, if necessary, I can get up in the church and state that there is just cause for stopping the marriage—"