He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero. He might be unfortunate, but he would scarcely be a fool. Bribble’s rendering of the service —he had the sort of voice that brings out things—and was still teeming with ideas about it when finally a wild outburst from the organ made it clear that, whatever snivelling there might be down in the chancel, that excellent wind instrument was, in its Mendelssohnian way, as glad as ever it could be. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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