On the evening of the day when the news of Alice's pseudo-engagement had been discussed at Mrs. Harbinger's tea, Jack called on her. She received him with composure, coming into the room a little pale, perhaps, but entirely free from self-consciousness. Alice was not considered handsome by her friends, but no one could fail to recognize that her face was an unusual one. The Count, in his distorted English, had declared that Miss Endicott "have een her face one Madonna," and the description was hardly to be bettered. The serene oval countenance, the dark, clear skin, the smooth hair of a deep chestnut, the level brows and long lashes, the high, pure forehead, all belonged to the Madonna type; although the sparkle of humor which now and then gleamed in the full, gray eyes imparted a bewitching flavor of humanity. To-night she was very grave, but she smiled properly, the smile a well-instructed girl learns as she learns to courtesy. She shook hands in a way perhaps a little formal, since she was greeting so old an acquaintance. "Sit down, please," she said. "It is kind of you to come in. I hardly had a chance to say a word to you this afternoon." Jack did not return her greeting, nor did he accept her invitation to be seated. He stooped above the low chair into which she sank as she spoke. "What is this amazing story that you are engaged to Count Shimbowski?" he demanded abruptly. She looked up to him with a smile which was more conventional than ever. "What right have you to ask me a question like that?" she returned. He waved his hand as if to put aside formalities. "But is it true?" he insisted. "What is it to you, Jack, if it were?" She grew visibly paler, and her fingers knit themselves together. He, on the contrary, flushed and became more commanding in his manner. "Do you suppose," he answered, "that I should be willing to see a friend of mine throw herself away on that old roué? He is old enough to be your father." "But you know," said she, assuming an air of raillery which did not seem to be entirely genuine, "that the proverb says it's better to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave." Jack flung himself into a chair with an impatient exclamation, and immediately got up again to walk the floor. "I wouldn't have believed it of you, Alice. How can you joke about a thing like that!" "Why, Jack; you've told me a hundred times that the only way to get through life comfortably is to take everything in jest." "Oh, confound what I've told you! That's good enough philosophy for me, but it's beneath you to talk so." "What is sauce for the goose--" "Keep still," he interrupted. "If you can't be serious--" "You are so fond of being serious," she murmured, interrupting in her turn. "But I am serious now. Haven't we always been good friends enough for me to speak to you in earnest without your treating me as if I was either impertinent or a fool?"