"Oh, of course you 'follow me,' as you call it. Suppose a girl had two lovers--you're nodding again--or, I ought to say, suppose there were two men who might be in love with a girl." "Only two?" asked the philosopher. "You see, any number of men _might _ be in love with--" "Oh, we can leave the rest out," said Miss May, with a sudden dimple; "they don't matter." "Very well," said the philosopher, "if they are irrelevant we will put them aside." "Suppose, then, that one of these men was, oh, _awfully_ in love with the girl, and--and proposed, you know--" "A moment!" said the philosopher, opening a note-book. "Let me take down his proposition. What was it?" "Why, proposed to her--asked her to marry him," said the girl, with a stare. "Dear me! How stupid of me! I forgot that special use of the word. Yes?" "The girl likes him pretty well, and her people approve of him, and all that, you know." "That simplifies the problem," said the philosopher, nodding again. "But she's not in--in love with him, you know. She doesn't _really_ care for him--_much_. Do you understand?" "Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind." "Well then, suppose that there's another man --what are you writing?" "I only put down (B)--like that," pleaded the philosopher, meekly exhibiting his note-book. She looked at him in a sort of helpless exasperation, with just a smile somewhere in the background of it. "Oh, you really are--" she exclaimed. "But let me go on. The other man is a friend of the girl's: he's very clever--oh, fearfully clever--and he's rather handsome. You needn't put that down." "It is certainly not very material," admitted the philosopher, and he crossed out "handsome"; "clever" he left. "And the girl is most awfully--she admires him tremendously; she thinks him just the greatest man that ever lived, you know. And she--she--" The girl paused. "I'm following," said the philosopher, with pencil poised. "She'd think it better than the whole world if --if she could be anything to him, you know." "You mean become his wife?" "Well, of course I do--at least, I suppose I do." "You spoke rather vaguely, you know." The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied: "Well, yes; I did mean become his wife." "Yes. Well?" "But," continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, "he doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he likes her--" "Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall we call him indifferent?" "I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks about it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that down." "I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher. "She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and--and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would--would be so proud of him, you see." "I see. Yes?"