"But where do I come in?" I asked, in bewilderment.
"Oh, well, I don't exactly know yet, but I might want you to give her away if we decide to have anyone do that, and there are lots of things you can attend to."
I smiled a smile that I keep for particular occasions. At times I can be decided; Marion says obstinate. But whether it is obstinacy or decision, I am as unyielding as a mule when the fit seizes me. I care not for reason, threats or chastisement; hope, fear, love and all else are encased in the one instinct to stand rigid, with my ears flat against my head and my fore-feet projecting slightly. Marion has learned that the only remedy is to pat me around the nose and put a lump of sugar in my mouth. So have I.
"I'll do nothing of the kind," I said, with a quick sideways jerk of my head.
Marion swallowed twice before she spoke. "Henry, dear," she said, sweetly, "I know you must have a good reason for your decision. Tell me what it is, won't you?"
I hadn't, but when a man is spoken to that way he's got to take notice, or feel like a boor. "It would take too long," I replied stubbornly, thinking hard.
"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Come and sit on the sofa and tell me all about it. It's awfully good of you to take so much interest in my aunt."
I sat down stiffly on the edge of the sofa, and stared into futurity; Marion toyed with my hair and looked inquiring.
"You ask me to give away your aunt," I began, in stern accusation, "to a man of whom I know literally nothing. I remember him only as a well-dressed, respectable-looking old codger, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a stubby grey beard and no mustache. He may be virtuous; he may not. He may be in love with your aunt; he may be in love with her money."