But he had always known there was only Lily. Once or twice
he would have become engaged, had it not been for that. He was a
blond boy, squarely built, good-looking without being handsome, and
on rainy Sundays when there was no golf he went quite cheerfully to
St. Peter's with his mother, and watched a pretty girl in the choir.
He wished at those times that he could sing.
A pleasant cumberer of the earth, he had wrapped his talents in a
napkin and buried them by the wayside, and promptly forgotten where
they were. He was to find them later on, however, not particularly
rusty, and he increased them rather considerably before he got
through.
It was this pleasant cumberer of the earth, then, who on the morning
after Lily's return, stopped his car before the Cardew house and got
out. Immediately following his descent he turned, took a square
white box from the car, ascended the steps, settled his neck in his
collar and his tie around it, and rang the bell.
The second man, hastily buttoned into his coat and with a faint odor
of silver polish about him, opened the door. Pink gave him his hat,
but retained the box firmly.
"Mrs. Cardew and Miss Cardew at home?" he asked.
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