Whitby stood at the top of the steps, slowly drawing his right-hand glove through his gloved left hand, time after time, casting a long look before he leaped. The driver of his hired _coupé_ eyed him with calculating patience, observing to himself that if this were a specimen of the average Englishman, England must be a cinch for a cabman. Whitby had not yet arrived at the leaping stage when another _coupé_, a private one with a noticeably fine team, stopped in passing the house, and a voice hailed him: "Hello, Whit! What are you mooning there for?" Whitby smiled: for all his consideration he had been pushed in at the last. He slowly descended the steps while he replied: "Evenin’, Wallie. I was just going to drop in on the Sparrows." "Good enough! Me, too. Jump in here and let your wagon follow. Do you hear, you driver? Trail in behind—unless you won’t need him, Whit." "Oh, let him come along. I—ah—I may be leaving rather early, don’t you know." "That so? Me, too. I’m darned glad I met you, Whit. I ’m in a regular blue funk—Brown is sulky as a bear. He ’s been driving me about for an hour, I should say, and he does n’t understand it. Fact is, Whit, I ’m going to ask a girl to marry me to-night, and I don’t want to, not a little bit; but if I don’t, some other fellow will, and that would be—well, worse." "By Jove! Marry you _to-night_! Do you fancy she will?" "No, you ’bloomin’ Britisher.’ _Ask_ her, not marry her, to-night. For the love of Moses! Do you think it’s an elopement?" "Well, I did n’t know, you know," and his tone was one of distinct disappointment. "You seem to be pretty certain she ’ll have you." "Oh! She ’ll have me right enough, but I ’ve got to ask first and make sure. There ’re too many others hanging around to suit me." "I say, old chap, I hope you won’t mind my asking but—it is n’t Miss McAllister, by any chance, is it?" Wallie turned in his seat and stared at the anxious face of Whitby for a few moments, then he broke into shouts of laughter. "You, too," he managed to say; and at last: "No, you trembling aspirant, it isn’t, by any chance, Miss McAllister. Margie and I are good friends, all right, but not in that way. Oh, you sly Johnnie! Why, I ’ll bet a hundred you ’re up to the same game, yourself. Own up, now." "I think a great deal of Miss McAllister, a very great deal. If I thought she ’d have me I ’d ask her the first opportunity." "And that will be in a few minutes. She ’s bound to be there—and here we are. Wish me luck, Whit." "I do, with all my heart, Wallie," and he was very serious in his earnestness.