Hignett impatiently, “postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry.” 

 “Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I haven’t. It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does. I’m the sort of man....” 

 “What is her name?” 

 “... the sort of man who....” 

 “What is her name?” 

 “Bennett.” 

 “Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father’s house?” 

 “That’s it. You’re a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing.” 

 “I intend to.” 

 “Fine!” 

 “The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane.” 

 “That’s right. I’ve noticed it myself.” 

 “Their auras are not the same colour.” 

 “If I’ve thought that once,” said Bream Mortimer, “I’ve thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it. Not the same colour. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.” 

 “I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps.” 

 “That’s good. But what’s the procedure? It’s getting late. She’ll be waiting at the church at eleven.” 

 “Eustace will not be there.” 

 “You think you can fix it?” 

 “Eustace will not be there,” repeated Mrs. Hignett. 

 Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair. 

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