“It is a thankless office,” I replied; “but in the case of impetuous youth I suppose it is necessary. Hot blood, Mrs. Loring, must be watched.”
She was getting puzzled, and evidently losing her hold on the situation. “After all,” she answered doubtfully, “when one has confidence in people perhaps it doesn’t matter so much.”
“It is dangerous,” I warned her. “When young recklessness takes the bit between its teeth and plunges headlong into a course of matrimony”—Millicent smiled at the description as applied to ourselves—“some calmer ruling is almost essential. Personally, I think that at all proposals an appointed authority should conduct the ceremonies. One cannot manage such affairs alone.”
She didn’t quite catch the suggestion. “It is perfectly unnecessary,” she replied.
“Indeed?” I asked. “And suppose the affair hung fire, and the proposal never came at all? Imagine the sorrow of the Goddess outside the Machine! I almost think she has a right to insist on personal supervision.”
“I think you are talking a great deal of nonsense,” she replied.
“Then, Mrs. Loring, you fail to follow me. Take a case, say, in which the woman proposes—I suppose you will admit the possibility—the man might be a fool—or dilatory—or getting fat——”
Mrs. Loring Chatterton turned suddenly on me, looked me up, down, widthwise, and through, and found no speech. I returned her look, and Millicent broke into unrestrained laughter. The light that came to the Goddess outside the Machine was too much for her coherence.
“Rollo Butterfield—and you, too, Millicent Dixon!—Millicent—Mr. Butterfield, how dare you, sir? You listened? I didn’t say it!”
“You didn’t say—what, Mrs. Loring?” I asked.