CHAPTER III.
"Well, old boy!" Mr.Fordyce greeted him with.

"You should have been with me and had a good round of golf--but perhaps, though, you have made up your mind!" Michael flung himself into his great chair.
"Yes--I have--and I have got a fiancee." Mr.Fordyce was not disturbed; he did not even answer this absurd remark, he just puffed his cigar--cigarettes were beneath his notice.
"You don't seem very interested," his host ejaculated, rather aggrievedly.
"Tommyrot!" "I tell you, it is true.

I have got a fiancee." "My dear fellow, you are mad!" "No, I assure you I am quite sane--I have found a way out of the difficulty--an angel has dropped from the clouds to save me from Violet Hatfield." Henry Fordyce was actually startled.

Michael looked as though he were talking seriously.
"But where did she come from?
What the--Oh! I have no patience with you, you old fool! You are playing some comedy upon me!" "Henry, I give you my word, I'm not--I am going to marry a most presentable young person at nine o'clock on Thursday night in the chapel here--and you are going to stay and be best man." Then his excitement began to rise again, and he got up from his chair and paced up and down restlessly.

"It is the very thing.