Everything was going splendidly.
I was especially satisfied, for George Harbinger was an estimable man.
He was an assessor, and entirely reliable. Indeed, I believe it would
be difficult to find an assessor who is not. When you read the police
court cases you find all sorts of professions and followings
represented in the charge sheets, from actors down to editors, but have
you ever heard of an assessor who defaulted, who committed bigamy,
arson, larceny, murder, or neglected to pay his income tax? No, you
have not. Also, you seldom hear of an unmarried assessor. They are
known to be such steady, dependable men that they are always snapped up
at once. Thus you can understand how pleased I was to get hold of
George.
One evening it seemed as though things were getting to a climax.
George had eaten four of Marion's oyster patties at dinner and, after
retaining her hand for an undue length of time at parting, asked if he
could see her alone if he called the following evening, as he had
something important to say to her.
Marion was in a flutter. She admitted that she 'rather liked' George.
(Your nice girl never says outright that she's keen on a man.) 'And
what do you think,' she confessed, 'he said when we were playing
draughts to-night that I was just the sort of girl his mother would
like, and--and----'
'Yes, go on,' I said tensely.
'That he never believed in a man marrying a girl of whom his mother did
not approve.
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