Mr. Burrow raised a deprecating hand and interrupted. “I said practically unanimous. I admit, of course, that you and the young woman hold dissenting opinions. There is always a minority report.” “I’m not trying to marry the majority. I’m not a Turk.” “How long have you known this particular Only One?” “A year.” “How long an interval elapsed between introduction and proposal?” “A month.” Mr. Burrow groaned. “Abject surrender! No brave defense of your heart, no decently stern resistance! Why, Stoessel held Port Arthur a hundred days and more—though he was hungry!” After a momentary pause he inquired sternly, “If you proposed eleven months ago, why in thunder are you just now planning this abduction?” Mr. Copewell blushed. “It took her some time to decide.” “It didn’t take you long, poor creature!” Mr. Burrow studied a stick of sealing-wax with a judicially wrinkled brow. “Mind you,” he generously acceded, “I’m not censuring the young woman. It’s the female vocation to lure men. Can’t blame ’em. Can’t blame spiders for weaving filmy traps, but I am very, very sorry for flies and fools that rush in where angels fear the web.” * * * * * “I don’t need your sympathy. It’s merely crass ignorance,” snapped Mr. Copewell. “If you only knew her!” “I don’t,” snapped Mr. Burrow back at him, “but I know her sex. I know that women differ from other birds of prey in only one particular and the distinction is in favor of the other birds of prey.” “That’s a lie, of course, but I haven’t time to argue it.” “The difference is,” calmly pursued Mr. Burrow, “that the others wear their own feathers. Women wear those of the others.” The office door opened. The head of the young woman stenographer appeared. Her voice was chilling. “Alderman Grotz says——” “Say to Mr. Grotz,” replied the Hon. Alexander Hamilton in a voice loud enough to carry, “that it is very good of him to wait. If he’ll indulge me—just ten minutes longer——” His voice trailed off ingratiatingly as the door closed, and he turned again on his visitor. “No woman in the world could reduce me to so maudlin a condition in a month! No, nor in a century. Now, having warned you in behalf of friendship, I’m entirely ready to help you ruin yourself. What’s the idea?” This was the moment for which Mr. Copewell had waited. He began with promptness. “Mary has telephoned me. She lives in Perryville, two hundred and fifty miles away. They won’t let me see her.” “They won’t let him see her!” commiserated Mr. Burrow with melancholy. “This trip to Europe was planned on the spur of the moment. It was meant to surprise us. It did. She starts to-morrow, unless——”