"Yes—usher at a wedding at five o'clock—up to today I didn't think I could do it—but now I don't mind. Why, today I'd hardly mind getting married myself!"
His smoothly-shaven face showed signs of the days of stress which, after forty, man nor woman can encounter with impunity. There was a tremor of the muscles round his mouth as he said abruptly:
"I don't know why I got tied up this way with you and Laurence. Awful mistake—and dead against my principles. Why, it spoils life, that's what it does. And it ain't that I'm so fond of you two either—that is, I don't think I am." He smiled uncertainly. "Old fool," he muttered.
Mary laid her hand on his arm.
"Don't do that, damn it," he said, drawing out a scented handkerchief. "Can't you see I'm about to cry?"
"Well, do, then," said Mary.
"At my time of life a nervous strain like this is no joke," he retorted peevishly. "I tell you I'm going to cut your acquaintance. I can't afford it."
"Well, do."
He scowled. "At forty-five a man has a right to think of himself—consider his little comforts and so on. He can't afford emotions, they're simply ruinous.... And I might have known you and Laurence would let me in for them. You're that kind. I suspected it all along."
It was a warm misty day of Indian summer. The carriage turned into the drive on the shore of the lake. There trees were shedding softly their last golden leaves. The lake was a deep cloudy blue, lapping in ripples on the sand.