"You are going to be married?" This time despair was uppermost. "I most certainly am!" said Mary Virginia stoutly. "Why, I confided _that_ to you years and years and years ago! Don't you remember I always insisted he should have golden hair, and sea-blue eyes, and a classic brow, and a beautiful willingness to go away somewhere and die of a broken heart if I ordered him to?" "Who is it?" "Who is who?" she parried provokingly. "The chap you're going to marry?" Mary Virginia appeared to reflect deeply and anxiously. She put out a foot, with the eternal feminine gesture, and dug a neat little hole in the graveled walk with her satin toe. "Laurence," said she. "I'm going to tell you the truth. The truth is, Laurence, that I simply hate to have to tell you the truth." "Mary Virginia!" he stammered wretchedly. "You hate to have to tell _me_ the truth? Oh, my dear, why? Why?" "Because." "But because why?" "Because," said the dear hussy, demurely, "I don't know." Laurence's arms fell to his sides, helplessly; he craned his neck and stared. "Mary Virginia!" said he, in a breathless whisper. Mary Virginia nodded. "It's really none of your business, you know," she explained sweetly; "but as you've asked me, why, I'll tell you. That same question plagues and fascinates me, too, Laurence. Why, just consider! Here's a whole big, big world full of men--tall men, short men, lean men, fat men, silly men, wise men, ugly men, handsome men, sad men, glad men, good men, bad men, rich men, poor men,--oh, all sorts and kinds and conditions and complexions of men: any one of whom I might wake up some day and find myself married to: and I don't know which one! It delights and terrifies and fascinates and amuses and puzzles me when I begin to think about it. Here I've got to marry Somebody and I don't know any more than Adam's housecat who and where that Somebody is, and he might pop from around the corner at me, any minute! It makes the thing so much more interesting, so much more like a big risky game of guess, when you don't know, don't you think?" "No: it makes you miserable," said Laurence, briefly. "But I'm not miserable at all!" "You're not, because you don't have to be. But I am!" "You? Why, Laurence! Why should _you_ be miserable?" Her voice lost its blithe lightness; it was a little faint. She said hastily, without waiting for his reply: "I guess I'd better run in. It was silly of me to walk to the gate with you at this hour. I think Madame's calling me. Goodnight, Laurence." "No, you don't," said he. "And it wasn't silly of you to come, either; it was dear and delightful, and I prayed the Lord to put the notion into your darling head, and He did it. And now you're here you don't budge from this spot until you've heard what I've got to say.