"Then why does he marry her?"
"Because I worked upon him. It's comical—yet it's dreadful."
"Is he an idiot—can't he judge for himself?" said Mrs. Rushbrook.
"He's marrying her for good manners. I persuaded him they require it."
"And don't they, then?"
"Not the least in the world!"
"Was that your idea of good manners? Why did you do it?"
"I didn't—I backed out, as soon as I saw he believed me. But it was too late. Besides, a friend of mine had a hand in it—he went further than I. I may as well tell you that it's Guy de Montaut, the little Frenchman of the embassy, whom you'll remember—he was of our party at Monte Cavo. Between us, in pure sport and without meaning any harm, we have brought this thing on. And now I'm devoured with remorse—it wasn't a creditable performance."
"What was the beauty of the joke?" Mrs. Rushbrook inquired, with exasperating serenity.
"Don't ask me now—I don't see it! It seems to me hideous."
"And M. de Montaut—has he any compunction?"
"Not a bit—he looks at it from the point of view of the Goldies. Veronica is a fille sans dot, and not generally liked; therefore with poor prospects. He has put a husband in her way—a rich, good-natured young man, without encumbrances and of high character. It's a service, where a service was needed, of which he is positively proud."
Mrs. Rushbrook looked at me reflectively, as if she were trying to give me her best attention and to straighten out this odd story.
