He had come to propose to her, or rather she had sent for him, to what end he hardly knew. Of this only was he certain, that she had turned his world topsy-turvy; cast down his conventional gods; admired him for what he considered his fallings-off from the established order of things; laughed at his great coups; cared not a whit for his most valued possessions; and become, in short, the most incomprehensible, bewitching, lovable woman on earth. He had talked to her about the weather, the opera, the Court Ball, and now--now he must speak to her of his love, unless, blessed reprieve! she spoke first--which she did. "Now, Mr. Scarsdale," she remarked, "I have not sent for you to talk amiable society nonsense: I want an explanation." "Yes, Miss Vernon," he replied, nerving himself for the ordeal. "Why did you propose to Aunt Eliza at the Andersons' crush last night?" "Because----" he faltered. "Well, really, you see she is your only relative in England--your chaperon--and it is customary here to address offers of marriage to the head of the family." "I really don't see why you want to marry her," continued his tormentor. "She is over sixty. Oh, you needn't be shocked; Aunt Eliza is not sensitive about her age, and it is well to look these things fairly in the face. You can't honestly call her handsome, though she is a dear good old soul, but, I fear, too inured to Chicago to assimilate readily with English society. Of course her private means are enormous----" "Good heavens! Miss Vernon," he exclaimed, "there has been some dreadful mistake! I entertain the highest respect for your aunt, Miss Cogbill, but I don't wish to marry her; I wish to marry--somebody else----" "Really! Why don't you propose to Miss Somebody Else in person, then?" "It is usual----" he began, but she cut him short, exclaiming: "Oh, bother! Excuse me, I didn't mean to be rude, but really, you know, any girl who was old enough to marry would be quite capable of giving you your--answer." The last word, after a pause for consideration, was accompanied by a bewitching, if ambiguous, smile. "I--I hope you are not offended," he floundered on, in desperate straits by this time. "Oh dear, no," she returned serenely, "I'm only grieved for Aunt Eliza. You shouldn't have done it, really; it must have upset her dreadfully; she's too old for that sort of thing. Do tell me what she said to you." "She said I must propose on my own account," he blurted out, "and that she could not pretend to advise me." "Clever Aunt Eliza!" murmured Miss Vernon. "So you see," continued her lover, determined to have it over and know the worst, "I came to you."