Great men, in their moments of weakness, are to be pitied rather than scorned. If ever a man had an excuse for leaping like a young ram, Fillmore had it. He had left Sally not much more than a week ago in England, in Shropshire, at Monk's Crofton. She had said nothing of any intention on her part of leaving the country, the county, or the house. Yet here she was, in Bugs Butler's training-camp at White Plains, in the State of New York, speaking softly in his ear without even going through the preliminary of tapping him on the shoulder to advertise her presence. No wonder that Fillmore was startled. And no wonder that, as he adjusted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chill apprehension. For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitation to Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach a girl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but, when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home and collects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be said to have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. Shrewdly Fillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, and mentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing. And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If the invitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence at White Plains mean only one thing. “Sally!” A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. “What... what...?” “Did I startle you? I'm sorry.” “What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?” Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it. “I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose which made it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton.” “Do you mean to say...?” “Yes. Don't let's talk about it.” “Do you mean to say,” persisted Fillmore, “that Carmyle proposed to you and you turned him down?” Sally flushed. “I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing, but--yes.”