The minute I saw him, I knew him. I mean The Nice Voice. I'd have known him by his voice if I hadn't been acquainted with his face, but I was. He was the picture that wasn't on Miss Marjorie Mayhew's dresser any longer--and, even more than the picture, he looked like what you mean when you say "man." When I was introduced to him I wanted to say: "How do you do. Oh! I'm _glad_ you look like that. She deserves it!" But even if I could, I'd have been struck too dumb to do it. For I caught his name--and he was the only son of the Hewitts, and heir-evident to all his folks. The only fault I could lay to his door was that he didn't have any eyes. Not for us. He was looking every-which-way, and I knew for who. So as soon as I could, I slips up to him and I says merely: "This way." He was right there with me, in a second. I took him up the stairs, and tapped at my front chamber door. She was setting in there on her couch, red as a red rose this time. And when she see who was with me, she looked more so than ever. But she spoke gentle and self-possessed, as women can that's been trained that way all their days. "How do you do?" says she, and gave him her hand, stranger-cool. That man--he pays no more attention to me than if I hadn't been there. He just naturally walked across the room, put his hands on her shoulders, looked deep into her eyes for long enough to read what she couldn't help being there, and then he took her in his arms. I slipped out and pulled the door to. And in the hall I met from six to seven folks coming up to take their things off, and heading straight for the front chamber. I stood myself up in front of the door. "Walk right into my room," says I--though I knew full well that it looked like Bedlam, and that I was letting good housekeepers in to see it. And so they done. And, more heads appearing on the stairs about then, I see that what I had to do was to stand where I was--if they were to have their Great Five Minutes in peace. Could anybody have helped doing that? And could anybody have helped hearing that little murmur that came to me from that room? "Dearest," he said, "how could you--how could you do like this? I've looked everywhere--" "I thought," she said, "that you'd never come. I thought you weren't looking." "You owe me," he told her solemnly, "six solid weeks of my life. I've done nothing since you left." "When a month went by," she owned up, "and you hadn't come, I--I took your picture off my bureau." "Where'd you put it?" he asks, stern. She laughed out, kind of light and joyous. "In my hand-bag," says she. Then they were still a minute. "Walk right to the left, and left your things right on my bed...." I heard myself saying over, crazy, to some folks. But then of course you always do expect your hostess to be more or less crazy-headed, and nobody thought anything of it, I guess. They came out in just a minute, and we went down the stairs together. And on the way down he says to her: