"There, there," he said in a soothing voice; "don't cry, May, whatever you do. The modern husband hates tears, but instead of giving in to them, he gets cross and clears out. Don't cry before the man you marry, or," he added, a fresh smile lighting his face, "even before the man you are engaged to." "I didn't mean to be so foolish," May responded, choking down her rebellious emotions. "I'm all upset." "I don't wonder. Now to go back to this letter. Of course I shouldn't think of reading it without your leave, but I supposed you'd think it proper under the circumstances to tell me to read it. I thought you'd say: 'Dearest, I have no secrets from thee! Read!' or something of that sort, you know." He was perhaps playing now to cheer May up, for he delivered this in a mock-heroic style, with an absurd gesture. At least the effect was to evoke a laugh which came tear-sparkling as a lark flies dew-besprent from a hawthorn bush at morn. She rallied a little, and spoke with more self-command. "Oh, that was the secret of a girl that wasn't engaged to you," she said, "and had no idea of being; no more," she added, dimpling, "than I had." Jack showed his white teeth in what his friends called his "appreciative grin." "Perhaps you're right," he returned. "By the way, do you know who Christopher Calumus really is?" She colored again, and hung her head. "Yes," she murmured, in a voice absurdly low. "Mrs. Harbinger told me last night. He told her yesterday at the County Club." "Does he know who wrote to him?" Her cheeks became deeper in hue, and her voice even lower yet. "Yes, he found out from Mrs. Harbinger." "Well, I must say I thought that Letty Harbinger had more sense!" "She didn't mean to tell him." "No woman ever meant to tell anything," he retorted in good-humored sarcasm; "but they always do tell everything. Then if you and Dick both know all about it, perhaps I had better give the letter to him." He offered to put the letter into his pocket, but she held out her hand for it beseechingly. "Oh, don't give it to anybody else," she begged. "Let me put it into the fire, and be through with it. It's done mischief enough!" "It may have done some good too," he said enigmatically. "I hope nothing worse will ever happen to you, May, than to be engaged to me. I give you my word that, as little as you imagine it, it's your interest and not my own I'm looking after. However, that's neither here nor there." He put the letter into his pocket without farther comment, disregarding her imploring look. Then he rose, and held out his hand. "Good-night," he said. "Some accepted lovers would ask for a kiss, but I'll wait till you want to kiss me. You will some time. Good-night. You'll remember what I wrote you about mentioning our engagement." She had at the mention of kisses become more celestial rosy red than in the whole course of that blushful interview, but at his last word her color faded as quickly as it had come.