“I’m quite certain you can’t,” he said. “Lord, that did hurt!” “Well, I shall do no harm then if I try,” said she. “I believe you’ve fallen in love.” The convoluted kernels dropped from Oliver’s fingers. “What makes you think that?” he asked. “My dear, it’s obvious to a woman’s eyes. I always told you that what you needed was to fall in love. You don’t do wool-work any more; you walk instead of sitting in an easy-chair. Some day, if you go on like this, you will play golf.” “Gracious! Am I as bad as that?” exclaimed he, startled into an irony that gave his case away. Alice clapped her hands delightedly. “Ah! I am right then!” she cried. “My dear, do tell me who she is? Shall I go and call on her? Have I ever seen her?” Oliver felt a curious diplomatic pleasure in giving true information which he knew would deceive. “Yes; I feel sure you have seen her,” he said, remembering that Alice had her dresses made at the shop where his divinity deified the window. “I can’t say that you know her.” “Oh, who is she?” cried Alice. “Is she a girl? Is she a woman? Will she marry you?” “No; I don’t suppose so,” said he. Alice’s face fell. “Is she somebody else’s wife, then?” she asked. “I hope not. But I don’t know that it matters. It is the fact of your having fallen in love which has improved you so immensely. I’ve noticed that an unhappy romance is just as good for people as a humdrum success which ends in christening mugs and perambulators.” Oliver got up. “You are rather coarse sometimes, dear Alice,” he observed. Oliver’s romance and his growing robustness lasted for some few days after Alice had guessed his secret, and then an end came to it more horrible than any that his wildest imaginations could have suggested to him. One day he had seen in a celebrated furrier’s a sable stole that would most delightfully protect his lady’s waxen neck from the inclemencies of a shrewd May morning, and he hurried along, while that was still vivid to his eye, in order to visualize it round her neck. There was a crowd of women in front of her window, and he edged his way in with eyes downcast, as was his wont, so that she might burst splendidly upon him at short range. Then, full of devotion and sable stole, he raised them. She was not there. In her place was a bold-faced creature in carmine, with lustful, wicked eyes like the females at Monte Carlo. His healthy outdoor life stood him in good stead at that moment, for he did not swoon or address shrill ejaculations to his Maker. He just staggered back one step, as if he had received a blow in the chest, then rallied his failing forces again....