Miss Sylvia Graham looked down upon a slender finger ornamented with the oddest and the most appropriate of engagement rings, a scarab beetle red-banded with three deep-hued rubies. “But, Average,” she said, and the golden laughter flickered again in the brown depths of her eyes, “not even you could expect a girl to accept a man through a keyhole.” “I suppose not,” said Average Jones with a sigh of profoundest content. “Some are for privacy in these matters; others for publicity. But I suppose I’m the first man in history who ever got his heart’s answer in an advertisement.” THE END