“Er, Miss Brewster,” said one of her rejected lovers, “let me offer you my best wishes. At the club we all swear by Harry, and we actually think of going into mourning over the loss. Er, the fellows are laying bets as to whether we shall ever see him there again. The odds are six to one on the club,—but the fellows don’t know you, you know.” “I want to offer you my heartiest congratulations,” gushed the girl who had tried for him. “Mr. Tyler has always been one of my best friends, and I am sure you will be very happy. He isn’t, of course, very fond of women’s society, but— Have you asked him to resign from his clubs?” ⁂ “Don’t you want to sit down, Harry?” asked Margaret, making room on the little sofa beside the fire. The young couple had enjoyed four months of ecstatic travel, thirty days of chaos while they settled their household goods, and then a recurring Indian-summer honeymoon of two months in front of their own fireside in the charmingly cosey library where the above remark was made. Upon this particular evening, however, Harry, in following his wife from the dining-room, took neither his customary seat beside his wife on the sofa nor lighted a cigar. On the contrary, he stood leaning against the mantel with anything but an expression or attitude of ease, and, noting this, Margaret had asked her question. “Not to-night, dear,” said Harry. “The truth is—well—I met Parmlee on my way up town, and I—that is—he asked me to come round to the club this evening—and, well—I didn’t like to disappoint him. And then, a fellow mustn’t stag—that is—don’t you think, my darling, that it’s a mistake for married people to see too much of each other—and—” “Oh, Harry!” cried Margaret, interrupting and rising. “You said you never could have enough—” “And I can’t, dearest,” interrupted Harry, hurriedly. “But you know— Well—can’t you—” “I feel as if it were the beginning of the end,” said Margaret, wildly. “Now, my darling,” pleaded Harry, “do be reasonable. You know— There, don’t cry. I won’t go. Sit down here and let me tell you how much I love you.” This occupied some time, but the clock never told on them, so it is impossible to say just how long. Presently Margaret said: “Harry, did you really want to—to leave me?” “Not a bit,” lied Harry. “It was only to keep my word to Parmlee.” “I suppose it’s too late now?” questioned Margaret, hopefully. “Late? Oh, no! Fun’s just beginning. But I’m going to stay with you, sweetheart.” There was a moment’s silence, and then Margaret said: “If you want to go, I want you to do it, Harry.” “Well,” responded Harry, rising, “if you insist, dearest.” “I do,” assented Margaret, in the most faint-hearted of voices. “That’s a darling!” said her husband. “It’s half-past nine, so you’ll only have a few minutes of loneliness before you go to bed.” “I sha’n’t go to bed, Harry,” sighed Margaret, dolefully.