“No,” said Conover, apologetically. “I’m afraid I never did. Maybe I could, though, if it’d make a hit with you. But you were talkin’ about Blacarda. You ain’t wastin’ sympathy on _him_, are you?” “I’m sorry for anyone that gets the worst of it. But--” “But no sorrier for Blacarda than you would be for anybody else?” “Of course not. Why?” “He comes here a lot. Twice I’ve met him here. Is he stuck on you?” “I think he is.” “I guess most people are,” sighed Caleb. “I don’t blame him; so long as you don’t care about him. You don’t, do you?” he finished anxiously. “He’s very handsome,” she observed demurely. “Is he?” “Well--pretty handsome.” “Is he?” “He’s--I’ve heard girls say so.” “H’m! Nice crimson lips, red cheeks, oily curled hair and eyes like a couple of ginger snaps!” “No,” corrected Desirée, judicially, “More like chocolate pies. There’s something very sweet and melting about them. And, besides, you mustn’t run him down. He’s very nice to me. Last night he asked me to marry him. What do you think of _that_? Honestly, he did.” “The measly he-doll! I wish I’d broke him a year ago instead of waiting for the Steeloid scrap. What’d you say when he asked you?” “Your face gets such a curious shade of magenta when you are angry, Caleb,” mused Desirée, observing him critically, her head on one side. “But it doesn’t match your hair a little bit. There, I didn’t mean to tease you. Yes, I did mean it, too, but I’m sorry. I told him I couldn’t marry him, of course.” “Good work!” approved Caleb, “What’d he say then?” “He--he asked if I’d try and look on him as a brother--‘a dear brother,’ and--” She broke off with a reminiscent laugh. “Well, what did you say?” “I’m afraid I was a little rude. But I didn’t mean to be. I’d heard a smothered giggle from over in the corner. So I told him if I’d really had any use for a brother--a ‘dear brother,’--I could reach right behind the divan and get one. He stalked over to the divan. And sure enough there, behind the cushions, was Billy, all wudged up in a little heap. He--” “All--_what_?” asked the perplexed Conover, pausing in the midst of a Homeric guffaw. “‘Wudged.’ All wudged up--like this--” crumpling her ten fingers into a white, compact little bunch. “Mr. Blacarda was very angry. He went away.” She joined for an instant in Conover’s laughter; then checked herself with a stamp of her foot. “Stop!” she ordered. “I’m a little beast to behave so. He--cared for me. He asked me to marry him. There ought to be something sacred in all that. And here I am making fun of him. Caleb, _please_ say something to make me more ashamed.” “You’re all right, girl!” chuckled Caleb in huge delight. “Poor pink-an’-white Blacarda! You were--” “I wasn’t! I ought to be whipped for telling you. But--but somehow, I seem to tell you everything. Honestly, I wouldn’t tell anyone else. Honestly! You _know_ that, don’t you?”