“That’s the devil of it!” he replied, angrily pounding the table with his fist. “I can’t. I’ve tried, and I can’t. My mind is full of that woman. If I don’t get rid of her I’m ruined—I’ll have to get a position as a salesman somewhere, or starve, for until she is caught between good stiff board covers I can’t write another line.” “Oh, you take too serious a view of it, Stuart,” I ventured. “You’re mad and tired now. I don’t blame you, of course, but you mustn’t be rash. Don’t send that letter yet. Wait until you’ve had the week at Barnegat—you’ll feel better then. You can write the book in ten days after your return; or if you still find you can’t do it, it will be time enough to withdraw then.” “What hope is there after that?” he cried, tossing a bundle of manuscript into my lap. “Just read that, and tell me what’s the use. I’d mapped out a meeting between Marguerite Andrews and a certain Mr. Arthur Parker, a fellow with wealth, position, brains, good looks—in short, everything a girl could ask for, and that’s what came of it.” I spread the pages out upon the table before me and read: CHAPTER IV A DECLARATION “_I have not seen_ _So likely an ambassador of love_.” —“Merchant of Venice.” Parker mounted the steps lightly and rang the bell. Marguerite’s kindness of the night before, which was in marked contrast to her coolness at the MacFarland dance, had led him to believe that he was not wholly without interest to her, and her invitation that he should call upon her had given him a sincere pleasure; in fact, he wondered that he should be so pleased over so trivial a circumstance. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my heart again,” he said to himself. “That is, again if I ever lost it before,” he added. And his mind reverted to a little episode at Bar Harbor the summer before, and he was not sorry to feel that that wound was cured—though, as a matter of fact, it had never amounted to more than a scratch. A moment later the door opened, and Parker entered, inquiring for Miss Andrews as he did so. “I do not know, but I will see if Miss Andrews is at home,” said the butler, ushering him into the parlor. That imposing individual knew quite well that Miss Andrews was at home, but he also knew that it was not his place to say so until the young lady had personally assured him of the facts in so far as they related to this particular caller. All went well for Parker, however. Miss Andrews consented to be at home to him, and five minutes later she entered the drawing room where Parker was seated. “How do you do?” she said, frigidly, ignoring his outstretched hand. (“Think of that, will you?” interposed Harley. “He’d come to propose, and was to leave engaged, and she insists upon opening upon him frigidly, ignoring his outstretched hand.” I couldn’t help smiling. “Why did you let her do it?” I asked.