"I suppose you don't happen to know what the time is?"

Nor did I. It was just an instance of his subtle intuition. He understood me at once and without effort. Many men have made a hobby of it for years and never been within three streets of it.

The clock at the post-office gave him the information he required, and, raising his hat, he said: "Well, I must be getting on."

The whole of the man's life was in that sentence. Always, he was getting on--and always with a compulsion, as of destiny, shoving behind.

Knowing my keen appreciation of art, of which I have always been a just and unfailing critic, he took me on the following Sat.u.r.day to see the pictures. It was not a good show--too many comics for my taste, and I'd seen the Charlie Chaplin one before. However, in the dim seclusion of the two-shilling seats just as the eighteenth episode of "The Woman Vampire" reached its most pathetic pa.s.sage, and the girl at the piano appropriately shifted to the harmonium, Hector asked me if I would marry him.

(No, I shan't. I know I'm an autobiographer and that you have paid to come in, but there are limits. You know how shy and retiring I am. No nice girl would tell you what the man said or did on such an occasion, or how she responded. There will be no details. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself.)

But just one of Hector's observations struck me particularly: "You know, Marge, there are not many girls in the laundry I would say as much to."

That statement of preference, admitting me as it were to a small circle of the elect, meant very much to me. I could only reply that there were some men I wouldn't even allow to take me to a cinema. I asked, and was accorded, time for consideration.

I was face to face with the greatest problem of my life. There was, I know, one great drawback to my marriage with Hector. An immense risk was involved. When the end of this chapter is reached the reader will know what the risk and drawback were.

At the same time, everybody knew well that Hector was marked out for a great position. I had already, with a view to eventualities, had some discussion with one of the Directors, Mr. Cashmere, whom I have already quoted. I was a special favourite of his. But it is quite an ordinary thing in business, of course, for a Director to discuss the internal affairs of the Board with one of the Company's junior clerks.

Mr. Cashmere expressed the highest opinion of Hector, and said he had no doubt that Hector would become a Director, as a result of a complicated situation that had arisen. Two of the Directors, Mr. Serge and Mr.

Angora, while remaining on the best possible social terms with the chairman, Sir Charles Cheviot, were bitterly opposed to him on questions of policy. On the other hand, though agreed on questions of policy, Mr.

Serge and Mr. Angora were bitterly jealous of each other, and a rupture was imminent. Under the circ.u.mstances, Mr. Cashmere, while a.s.suring everybody of his whole-hearted support, had a private reservation of judgment to be finally settled by the directional feline saltation.

Whichever turn the crisis took, he regarded it as certain that there would be a resignation, and that Hector would get the vacant place.

"Why," I said, "it's rather like the Government of the British Empire."

"Hush!" he said, warningly. "It is exactly like it, but in the interests of the shareholders we do not wish that to be generally known. It would destroy confidence."

I myself felt quite certain that if Hector did become a Director he would very shortly be chairman of the Board. He was a man that naturally took anything there was.

It was in my power to marry a man who would become the chairman of a Laundry Company with seventeen different branches. It was a great position. Had I any right to refuse it? If I did not take it, I felt sure that somebody else would. Was anybody else as good as I was? Truth compelled me to answer in the negative. The voice of conscience said: "Take a good thing when you see it. People have lost fortunes by opening their mouths too wide."

On the other hand there were two considerations of importance. I might possibly receive a better offer. If I had been quite sure that Hector would have taken it nicely, I would have asked him for a three months'

option to see if anything better turned up, but I knew that with his sensitive nature he might be offended.

The second consideration was the terrible risk to which I have already referred. Do be patient. You will know all about it when the time comes.

I had to decide one way or the other, and--as the world knows now--I decided in favour of Hector. And immediately the storm broke.

Every old cat that I knew--and I knew some--began to give me advice.

Now, n.o.body takes advice better than I do, when I am conscious that I need it and am sure that the advice is good. Of this I feel as sure as if such an occasion had ever actually arrived. In an International Sweet-nature Compet.i.tion I would back myself for money every time.

I was told that in the dignified position which was to be mine I must give up larking about and the use of wicked words when irritated. It seemed to me that if I was to surrender all my accomplishments I might just as well never marry Hector at all. I avoid a certain freedom of speech which my great predecessor uses on a similar occasion.

Dear old Mr. Cashmere found me in almost a bad temper about it, and listened gravely to my complaint. Placing one hand on my shoulder, he said:

"Marge, I have lived long, and in the course of my life I have received much advice. My invariable rule has always been to thank for it, expressing my grat.i.tude with some warmth and every appearance of sincerity. This is all that the adviser requires. It gives him, or her, complete satisfaction. It costs nothing. Afterwards, I proceed precisely as if no advice had been given."

That freak, Millie Wyandotte, sent me a plated toast-rack and a letter from which I extract the following:

"If you were half as extraordinary as you think you are, this would be a miserable marriage. Anybody who married it would get lost, bewildered, and annoyed, and the hymn for those at sea should be sung at the wedding ceremony. But cheer up, old girl. Really extraordinary people never think it worth while to prove that they are extraordinary, and mostly would resent being told it. You'll do. Psychologies like yours can be had from any respectable dealer at a shilling a dozen, including the box. They wear very well and give satisfaction. Here's luck."

Mr. J. A. Banting sent me a travelling-clock at one time the property of Lord Baringstoke, and a letter of such fervent piety and tender affection that it is too sacred for me to quote.

Fifty-eight rejected suitors combined to send me a hand-bag of no great intrinsic value. I cannot but think that the principle of syndication is more suited to business than to generosity.

But I will not weary the reader with a list of the numerous and costly gifts that I received. Suffice it to say that one of my brothers, an excellent judge, offered me a fiver for the lot, and said that he expected to lose money by it.

Immediately after the wedding ceremony the blow fell. I had foreseen the danger of disaster from the very first, and that disaster came. I can hardly bring myself to write of it.

I have spoken of my husband as Hector, but his surname was Harris--his mother was one of the Tweeds. Consequently, I had become Mrs. Harris.

The tendency of a Mrs. Harris to become mythical was first noticed by an English writer of some repute in the nineteenth century. I forget his precise name, but believe that it was Thackeray.

It was in the vestry that I seemed to hear the voice of an elderly and gin-bemused female telling me that there was no sich person. I did not cease to exist, but I became aware that I never had, and never could have, existed. I was merely mythical. Gently whispering "The Snark was a Boojum," I faded away.

The last sound I heard was the voice of Hector calling to me:

"Hullo, hullo! Are you there? Harris speaking.... Hullo, hullo.... Are you there?"

And, as not infrequently happens, there was no answer.

H. G. WELLS'

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