“I put my money on Jane,” spoke up Mr. Scott, promptly. “You won’t lose,” answered that young woman. “I rose, wiped my eyes with a handkerchief--black border, two inches; price, three dollars--and spoke my mind. I said that I had married to suit them, and that henceforth I would live to suit myself; that I was perfectly willing they should pay my bills, but that I intended to take an apartment in town and go on living as before. I said it was not my fault that my poor, dear husband--I shed a tear or two--had met with financial reverses and was not able to leave me anything. I said, further, that I would not be dictated to about the size of my bills, that everyone knew I was not extravagant--yes, Billie, I said that with a straight face--and that I was in deep grief, and could not bear any more discussion of my affairs, and so I would just take my leave and send in the bills.” “Bet they were paralyzed,” observed Billie. “That’s not the word for it. I left them gasping for breath. But they hate gossip, and that’s where I had them. They hate to be called mean, though being mean doesn’t worry them. That’s the way with some people, you know. So I rented this apartment, moved my things in, drew a few checks on uncle Jacob--the best of the lot, by the way--and here I have lived in my deep grief.” Jane smiled at Mr. Scott and leaned back in her chair. “That’s the first chapter,” he said. “Yes,” she answered, “and yesterday’s letter, which I’m coming to, is the beginning of the second. This letter informed me that my bills were becoming outrageously large, that I needed a chaperon--fancy a widow in her first grief needing a chaperon, Billie--and the long and short of it is that I must give up this apartment and go and live among them as originally proposed. “Well?” queried Mr. Scott. “Well, what?” demanded Jane. “You certainly didn’t for a moment think I would do it?” “No,” he responded. “There’s a very simple way out, you know. Marry me and let the Willoughbys go to----” “Thunder,” finished Jane. “Oh, Billie, I do appreciate the fact that you love me and want me. And if I loved you, I’d live in a cottage with you--though I hate cottages--and work like a slave. But the awful fact must be faced that I do not love you. I am horribly fond of you, though, Billie, and I wish I could marry you, but I never could make you understand how I hate being married. I was knocked down to the highest bidder, and the experience was too disagreeable to permit me to marry again or to fall in love with anyone.” “But you’re flirting awfully with Kingston and Maitland--and there’s Dick Thomas--oh, Jane, it’s pretty tough on me!” The boy--for Mr. Scott wasn’t much more--looked as though he were going to cry.