“You see, Mr. Conrad,” said Adrian, turning to the lawyer, with mock seriousness, “that although my wife is getting quite English in some respects, yet the American independence will crop out occasionally. I despair of ever eradicating that!” he added, with a fond look at the bright face bent so earnestly over the closely written pages she had unfolded. Suddenly she looked up, with a little exclamation of delight and surprise. “Oh, Adrian!” she said, “I have such good news for you! Aspasia is going to be married—and to whom do you think?” “Get Mr. Conrad to guess—he knows more concerning your acquaintances than I,” Adrian replied. “But it is no one whom Mr. Conrad knows at all, and you are well acquainted with him. Besides, he is a New Yorker.” “I am sure I know of no one in New York who is marriageable, unless it be——” “Well, whom?” Brownie asked, with shining eyes, as he hesitated. “Wilbur Coolidge,” he replied, with a peculiar expression. “And why not?” she demanded, mischievously; and he laughed outright. He had always been a trifle sensitive over that little episode in her life. He could not bear the thought that another should even have presumed to love her. “Let me read you what she says,” Brownie went on. “Mr. Conrad knows all about her, and of course you are all interested in my friends, and then Aspasia was so kind when auntie died.” The sweet voice always softened tenderly when speaking of auntie. “She begins her news by saying,” she continued, referring to the letter: