A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, which saddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellows swept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the whole arrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibility that Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to play the part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing that could happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that made him hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospect of having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had cast a rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly liked and respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocratic reserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husband a girl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With the capricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightful sex, she had spilled the beans. “But why?” “Oh, Fill!” Sally had expected that realization of the facts would produce these symptoms in him, but now that they had presented themselves she was finding them rasping to the nerves. “I should have thought the reason was obvious.” “You mean you don't like him?” “I don't know whether I do or not. I certainly don't like him enough to marry him.” “He's a darned good fellow.” “Is he? You say so. I don't know.” The imperious desire for bodily sustenance began to compete successfully for Fillmore's notice with his spiritual anguish. “Let's go to the hotel and talk it over. We'll go to the hotel and I'll give you something to eat.” “I don't want anything to eat, thanks.” “You don't want anything to eat?” said Fillmore incredulously. He supposed in a vague sort of way that there were eccentric people of this sort, but it was hard to realize that he had met one of them. “I'm starving.” “Well, run along then.” “Yes, but I want to talk...” He was not the only person who wanted to talk. At the moment a small man of sporting exterior hurried up. He wore what his tailor's advertisements would have called a “nobbly” suit of checked tweed and--in defiance of popular prejudice--a brown bowler hat. Mr. Lester Burrowes, having dealt with the business which had interrupted their conversation a few minutes before, was anxious to resume his remarks on the subject of the supreme excellence in every respect of his young charge. “Say, Mr. Nicholas, you ain't going'? Bugs is just getting ready to spar.” He glanced inquiringly at Sally. “My sister--Mr. Burrowes,” said Fillmore faintly. “Mr. Burrowes is Bugs Butler's manager.” “How do you do?” said Sally. “Pleased to meecher,” said Mr. Burrowes. “Say...” “I was just going to the hotel to get something to eat,” said Fillmore. Mr. Burrowes clutched at his coat-button with a swoop, and held him with a glittering eye.