"I don't know that I'd call him misguided," said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair, "I think he's a right smart picker! She's such a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved her for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I'm not one of these smooth, dashing guys, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not…."
"If you will kindly," said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, "postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry."
"Haven't I told you?" said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. "That's odd. I haven't! It's funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does. I'm the sort of man…"
"What is her name?"
"Bennett."
"Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house?"
"That's it. You're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing."
"I intend to."
"Fine!"
"The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane."