"And I think I'll invite you too," she said, with becoming coquetry--"even though you've never paid your party-call--for the other one!" But why wasn't she sometimes at home, home-making? That was what he should like to know. And aloud, he spoke with hard brightness of the weather. Through her seemingly incessant practice, Angela drove better now; not efficiently or rapidly, but no longer with her first anxious air, stopping short when she saw a wagon a block away. This left her more freedom and enterprise for conversation. Mr. Garrott's meteorological comments soon petered out. Subtly, gently, her manner seemed to reprove him for wasting their time, as it were, on trivialities. She said presently: "Did you ever read that book I lent you, Mr. Garrott--'Marna'?" The young man groaned inwardly. He could not understand why he had not returned the book last week as he had intended--with or without the blossoms--instead of dilly-dallying along this way, till some point was made of it. True enough, Angela interrupted his loquacious apologies:-- "Oh, it isn't that! I really don't want the book at all. But--" She drove a few feet farther--an appreciable interval at four miles an hour--and ended, rather wistfully:-- "I wondered if you weren't keeping it--for another reason. I mean--just because you didn't want to come to return it." "Why, what an idea! Ridiculous!--" "Mr. Garrott, you know you _have_ seemed to--since--" "You've no idea how overworked I am these days--never a minute to call my own! Why, there's your cousin, Mary Wing,--one of my best friends,--and I haven't so much as laid eyes on her--but once--since 'way before Christmas! Think of it! And that's--" "You used to be willing to take a _little_ time for pleasure," said Angela, looking away from him, "before--we had that awful misunderstanding." "It gets worse and worse all the time!" said Charles, hastily. "That's what I say! That's writing!--yes, indeed!--inexorable--once let it into your life, and it eats it all up--forcing a man to be a--a hermit for life, you might say. But there was something I was very anxious to tell you, Miss Flower. Let me see ... slipped me for the moment. Ah--oh, yes!--did you know Donald Manford's back again?" "Oh! No, is he? I hadn't heard." "Yes, old Donald got back Sunday, full of pride and honors...." And then into the eyes of the worried young man there shot a faint gleam. He had mentioned Donald absolutely at random, but the moment he heard the youth's name on the air, an idea exploded in his brain, leaving behind a dull hope. Unlike himself, Donald was a marrying man. Why, when you stopped to think of it, wasn't Angela the very girl for him? And why, then, shouldn't he, Charles, frankly reversing his purposes at the Helen Carson luncheon last month, bring together once more these two nice, simple cousins of the too-modern Mary, just as he had done that night at the Redmantle Club, when all the trouble had begun?