I immediately enlightened him. I told him every circumstance—even my suspicion as to the hero of her heart, and it seemed to please him. “Won’t the story go if you stop it with the engagement?” I asked, after it was all over. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “But I shall not publish it. If it was all so distasteful to her as you say, I’d rather destroy it.” “Don’t do that,” I said. “Change the heroine’s name, and nobody but ourselves will ever be the wiser.” “I never thought of that,” said he. “That’s because you’ve no imagination,” I retorted. Stuart smiled. “It’s a good idea, and I’ll do it; it won’t be the truest realism, but I think I am entitled to the leeway on one lapse,” he said. “You are,” I rejoined. “Lapse for the sake of realism. The man who never lapses is not real. There never was such a man. You might change that garden-party costume too. If you can’t think of a better combination than that, leave it to me. I’ll write to my sister and ask her to design a decent dress for that occasion.” “Thanks,” said Stuart, with a laugh. “I accept your offer; but, I say, what was the name of the little mountain house where you found her?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “You made such an infernal row battering down my door that I came away in a hurry and forgot to ask.” “That is unfortunate,” said Stuart. “I should have liked to go up there for a while—she might help me correct the proofs, you know.” That’s what he said, but he didn’t deceive me. He loved her, and I began again to hope to gracious that Harley had not deceived himself and me, and that Marguerite Andrews was a bit of real life, and not a work of the imagination. At any rate, Harley had an abiding faith in her existence, for the following Monday night he packed his case and set out for Lake George. He was going to explore, he said. X BY WAY OF EPILOGUE “_Let_, _down the curtain_, _the farce is done_.” —RABELAIS.