"Poor girl!" she said at last. Andy looked sharply at her. She smiled. "Oh yes, you worship Harry, don't you? Well, he's a very charming man. I was rather inclined to fall in love with him once myself. Luckily for me I didn't." "I'm sure he'd have responded," Andy laughed. "Yes, that's just it; he would have! When did you say they were going to be married?" "October, I think Harry said." "Four months! And he dotes on her?" "I should think so. You should just hear him!" "I daresay I shall. He always likes talking to one girl about how much he's in love with another." The Nun's matter-of-fact way of speaking may have contributed to the effect, but in the end the effect of what she said was to give the impression that she regarded Harry Belfield's present passion as one of a series--far from the first, not at all likely to be the last. The inflection of tone with which she had exclaimed "Four months!" implied that it was a very long while to wait. "You'd understand it better if you saw them together," said Andy, eager, as always, to champion his friend. "You're very enthusiastic about her, anyhow," smiled the Nun. "It almost sounds as if you were a little in love with her yourself." "Such a thing never occurred to me." Then he laughed, for the Nun was laughing at him. "Well, she would make every man want to--well, sort of want to take care of her, you know." "Well, there's no harm in your doing that--in moderation; and she may come to want it. Have you ever been in love yourself?" "Yes, once," he confessed; "a long while ago, just before I left South Africa." "Got over it?" she inquired anxiously. "Yes, of course I have, long ago. It wasn't very fatal." "Fickle creature!" Andy gave one of his bursts of hearty laughter to hear himself thus described. "I like you," she said; "and I'm glad you're going in with Gilly, because we shall often see you at lunch-time." "Oh, but I can't afford to lunch at that place every day!" "You'll have to--with Gilly; because lunch is the only time he ever gets ideas--he always says so--and unless he can tell somebody else he forgets them again, and they're lost beyond recall. He used to tell them to me, but I always forgot them too. Now he'll tell you; so you'll have to be at lunch, and put it down as office expenses." Andy had risen to go. The Nun sat up. "I can only tell you once again how grateful I am for all your kindness," he said.