To employ a childish phrase—it best fits the occasion—I grew madder and madder, until at last matters within me rose to such a height, that when he began to tell of his brother’s house in Buffalo, and to dwell upon the peculiarities of its furniture, I felt peculiar enough to hurl all of mine at him. The number of things I thought of that evening would form a library of energetic literature. Among other resolves, I determined from that day on, if I lived till my hair whitened—lived till I raised my third or fourth crop of teeth, never, _never_, to give Randolph Chance another thought. There was one comfort: he did not know, nor did any one else, what a complete goose I had made of myself; but, though I _had_ been most foolish, thanks to a sober, Puritanic ancestry, I still had myself in hand; my hysterics had been occasional and secluded, and I was not wholly gone daft. I could recover; I would! and then, if ever he came to my feet, he would learn that some things don’t rise, after once they are cold. I was calm enough when he at last decided to go, and instead of running on excitedly, as I had been vaguely conscious of doing part of the evening, I really conversed. Indeed, to speak modestly, I think I was rather interesting. I had forgotten what he had called for. So had he—apparently. All I hoped was that he did not intend to bore me with frequent repetitions of this call. I had better use for my evenings than such waste of time as chatting with him. I cast about me for some suitable excuse to shut off future inflictions, and at last hit upon one that I thought might answer. “I suppose I must sacrifice myself for a while,” I said cheerfully; “I have had a deal of business swoop down upon me, and in order to dispatch it, must shut myself up for a time, and forego the joys of society.” Instantly his old embarrassment came back upon him, as a small boy’s enemy—supposed to be vanquished—darts around the corner, and renews the attack. He started to go; came back; returned to the door; again came back; colored vividly—looked at me imploringly. And as I looked at him my anger, my coldness—all vanished, and I exclaimed: “Randolph Chance, why _don’t_ you say it!” “Some things are awfully hard to say. I can write—— Oh Constance! you might have mercy on me!” “Well,” I said, laughing—I could almost see the light upon my face—“I suppose you want me to marry you.” “You can’t get away now!” he cried, a second later. The walls heard a much-smothered voice— “I don’t want to.”