"N--o!" cried Stanton frantically. "N--O! That's the mischief of it--the very mischief! I don't even know that the Serial-Letter Co. _is_ a girl. Why it might be an old lady, rather whimsically inclined. Even the oldest lady, I presume, might very reasonably perfume her note-paper with cinnamon roses. It might even be a boy. One letter indeed smelt very strongly of being a boy--and mighty good tobacco, too! And great heavens! what have I got to prove that it isn't even an old man--some poor old worn out story-writer trying to ease out the ragged end of his years?" [Illustration: Some poor old worn-out story-writer] "Have you told your fiancee about it?" asked the Doctor. Stanton's jaw dropped. "Have I told my fiancee about it?" he mocked. "Why it was she who sent me the circular in the first place! But, 'tell her about it'? Why, man, in ten thousand years, and then some, how could I make any sane person understand?" "You're beginning to make me understand," confessed the Doctor. "Then you're no longer sane," scoffed Stanton. "The crazy magic of it has surely then taken possession of you too. Why how could I go to any sane person like Cornelia--and Cornelia is the most absolutely, hopelessly sane person you ever saw in your life--how could I go to anyone like that, and announce: 'Cornelia, if you find any perplexing change in me during your absence--and your unconscious neglect--it is only that I have fallen quite madly in love with a person'--would you call it a person?--who doesn't even exist. Therefore for the sake of this 'person who doesn't exist', I ask to be released." "Oh! So you do ask to be released?" interrupted the Doctor. "Why, no! Certainly not!" insisted Stanton. "Suppose the girl you love does hurt your feelings a little bit now and then, would any man go ahead and give up a real flesh-and-blood sweetheart for the sake of even the most wonderful paper-and-ink girl whom he was reading about in an unfinished serial story? Would he, I say--would he?" "Y-e-s," said the Doctor soberly. "Y-e-s, I think he would, if what you call the 'paper-and-ink girl' suggested suddenly an entirely new, undreamed-of vista of emotional and spiritual satisfaction." "But I tell you 'she's' probably a BOY!" persisted Stanton doggedly. "Well, why don't you go ahead and find out?" quizzed the Doctor.