"I couldn't tell her anyway," she cried, with a peal of laughter, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, how funny!"
I sat down, feeling strangely flabby and weak. "Then why," I asked helplessly, mopping my brow, "did you repeat what I said about second marriages?"
Her smile gave place to a look of anxiety. "Listen, Henry," she entreated, "and try to fix your mind on this. I explained to you that your opinion was the greatest comfort to her, and I told her what you thought because I wanted—to—settle—her—mind."
"Oh, yes—just so," I assented. "And it got that way because she was old and foolish." I nodded with a vacuous air of perfect understanding.
Marion leaned back on the sofa limply and stared at me. "Not because she was old and foolish, for she wasn't," she said helplessly, "but because she thought other people would think she was."
"Yes, yes," I repeated vacantly; "then you came along and straightened things out. Now," I added, "you may try your hand on me. My mind's unsettled."
I felt a foolish smile widening my mouth at Marion's look of alarm, and closed my eyes trustfully as my head drooped backwards. When I opened them again she was standing behind my chair shaking me with all her might. A fog seemed to drift away from my brain and I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask. "What—advice—did you—give?" I asked, in spasms.
"To marry—Mr. Fair——"
"Marry!" I shouted, leaping to my feet. "Old Fairman?"
Her eyes shone with triumph. "Mr. Fairman, Henry," she said, in gentle reproof. "Auntie left all the arrangements to me, and she was delighted at the idea of being married here at the end of her visit. I knew you would be glad to do anything you could."