"Yes, there was some one she liked better than me. That was the trouble."
"It generally is, while it lasts; then it turns out to be a blessing. But, of course, you've never had the chance."
"As you say, I've never had the chance. Her name--I won't tell you her name--though why shouldn't I? Her name is Margaret Wallace."
"Scotch, is she?"
"Her father was Scotch, her mother English. He was my dearest friend. When he died----"
"He left his only daughter, then a mere child, and that was all."
"That was all, and as you say she was a mere child. You seem to have had some experiences of your own."
"One or two. I'm more than seven."
"So I should imagine."
"You took her to your own home, found her in food and washing, and pocket-money now and then. As she grew older her wondrous beauty and her many virtues--especially the first lot--warmed your withered heart. When she attained to womanhood you breathed to her the secret of your passion, which she had spotted about eighteen years before; but as she didn't happen to be taking any, of course the band began to play. Isn't that the sort of story you were going to tell, only I daresay you wouldn't have told it in quite that way?"