“My dear,” she said, with her eyes upon his face, “I was only playing you up. I think your advice is sound and provident, and you’ve perfectly satisfied me that if I don’t take it, I shall be a brass-bound fool.” The punch was unexpected, but, to Bagot’s eternal credit, the hand that was holding a flaming match to his pipe never wavered. The man knew how to lose. As for Spring, she was so proud of him that she had much ado not to burst into tears. Before she had time, Willoughby had laid down his pipe and picked up her hand. “That’s right,” he said, smiling. “For your sake I’m awfully glad and I believe you’ll be very happy.” He kissed the cool fingers, and turned away. “And, now that’s settled, let’s go into the Servants’ Hall.” He had, to my mind, done well, had this Groom of the Chambers. He was, of course, desperately in love with Spring. More. By taking the office he held, he had made himself outcaste. He never could marry, because he could never allow any woman to forfeit her own degree by becoming his wife. The possibility of finding a woman whom he could love, who also was outcaste, had been too ridiculously remote to be considered. And now, this very thing had come about. Exquisite, dazzling Spring was within his reach. Whether she would have married him is beside the point, which is that he could have wooed her with a clear conscience. Yet, because of her chance of marrying one who was not outcaste, his wonderful, shining occasion must be renounced. . . . Willoughby renounced as he loved—with all his might. The man was resolute. No passing flash of pity must be permitted to affect the case, no tear of sympathy for him fall into the trembling scale. For Spring to suspect that he loved her would have been unearthly sweet. That it would actually embarrass her was most unlikely. What was a broken-down Bagot, haunting the home of his fathers like a seedy ghost—what was such a man to her? Still, the slight risk must not be taken. If she could possibly do it, she must marry her wealthy swain. To Bagot, Spring’s happiness was everything. His own did not count. To my mind, such love was worth having. And Spring thought likewise. “I must be going,” she said. Willoughby bowed. In silence they passed through the garden and out into the drive. As he opened the wicket-gate— “Tell me one thing,” she said. “Why did you say you were sure he was one of the best?” “Because I knew that, if he was not, you wouldn’t have considered his proposal.” “But I didn’t,” said Spring, with a positively blinding smile. “I turned him down last night.” “You turned him down?” shouted Bagot. Spring smiled very sweetly. “I thought I told you,” she said, “that I was a fool.” She left him staring, and pelted down the road. * * * * * Spring came the next afternoon, but was gone before four o’clock. Then came Thursday. Willoughby found her framed in the little porch.