“No, I’m not. That is a minor reason. The really important one is that it wouldn’t be fair to me.” “No, it would not,” he admitted, with an air of candor. “Because, you see, I happen to care for another man,” she purred. His vanity leaped up fully armed. “Another man! Who?” “That’s my secret,” she answered, smiling at his chagrin. “And his?” “I said mine. At any rate, if three knew, it wouldn’t be a secret,” was her quick retort. “Do you think you have been quite fair to me, Virginia?” he asked, with gloomy dignity. “I think so,” she answered, and touched him with the riposte: “I’m ready now to have you tell me when you expect to marry Aline Harley.” His dignity collapsed like a pricked bladder. “How did you know?” he demanded, in astonishment. “Oh well, I have eyes.” “But I didn’t know—I thought—” “Oh, you thought! You are a pair of children at the game,” this thousand-year-old young woman scoffed. “I have known for months that you worshiped each other.” “If you mean to imply” he began severely. “Hit somebody of your size, Warry,” she interrupted cheerfully, as to an infant. “If you suppose I am so guileless as not to know that you were coming here this afternoon to tell me you were regretfully compelled to give me up on account of a more important engagement, then you conspicuously fail to guess right. I read it in your note.” He gave up attempting to reprove her. It did not seem feasible under the circumstances. Instead, he held out the hand of peace, and she took it with a laugh of gay camaraderie. “Well,” he smiled, “it seems possible that we may both soon be subjects for congratulation. That just shows how things work around right. We never would have suited each other, you know.” “I’m quite sure we shouldn’t,” agreed Virginia promptly. “But I don’t think I’ll trouble you to congratulate me till you see me wearing another solitaire.” “We’ll hope for the best,” he said cheerfully. “If it is the man I think, he is a better man than I am.” “Yes, he is,” she nodded, without the least hesitation. “I hope you will be happy with him.” “I’m likely to be happy without him.” “Not unless he is a fool.” “Or prefers another lady, as you do.” She settled herself back in the low easy chair, with her hands clasped behind her head. “And now I’d like to know why you prefer her to me,” she demanded saucily. “Do you think her handsomer?” He looked her over from the rippling brown hair to the trim suede shoes. “No,” he smiled; “they don’t make them handsomer.” “More intellectual?” “No.” “Of a better disposition?” “I like yours, too.” “More charming?” “I find her so, saving your presence.” “Please justify yourself in detail.” He shook his head, still smiling. “My justification is not to be itemized. It lies deeper—in destiny, or fate, or whatever one calls it.” “I see.” She offered Markham’s verses as an explanation: