"W-why didn't you want to come?" she asked, fighting for time. "You said you didn't want to come, didn't you?" "Because," he said, smiling, "I don't like to hang wall paper." "But if you are a paper hanger by trade----" "I suppose you think me a real paper hanger?" She was cautiously endeavoring to free one edge of her skirt; she nodded absently, then subsided, crimsoning, as a faint tearing of cloth sounded. "Go on," she said hurriedly; "the story of your career is _so_ interesting. You say you adore paper hanging----" "No, I don't," he returned, chagrined. "I say I hate it." "Why do you do it, then?" "Because my father thinks that every son of his who finishes college ought to be disciplined by learning a trade before he enters a profession. My oldest brother, De Courcy, learned to be a blacksmith; my next brother, Algernon, ran a bakery; and since I left Harvard I've been slapping sheets of paper on people's walls----" "Harvard?" she repeated, bewildered. "Yes; I was 1907." "_You!_" He looked down at his white overalls, smiling. "Does that astonish you, Miss Carr?--you are Miss Carr, I suppose----" "Sybilla--yes--we're--we're triplets," she stammered. "The beauti--the--the Carr triplets! And you are one of them?" he exclaimed, delighted. "Yes." Still bewildered, she sat there, looking at him. How extraordinary! How strange to find a Harvard man pasting paper! Dire misgivings flashed up within her. "Who are you?" she asked tremulously. "Would you mind telling me your name. It--it isn't--_George!_" He looked up in pleased surprise: "So you know who I am?" "N-no. But--it isn't George--is it?" "Why, yes----" "O-h!" she breathed. A sense of swimming faintness enveloped her: she swayed; but an unmistakable ripping noise brought her suddenly to herself. "I am afraid you are tearing your skirt somehow," he said anxiously. "Let me----" "No!" The desperation of the negative approached violence, and he involuntarily stepped back. For a moment they faced one another; the flush died out on her cheeks. "If," she said, "your name actually is George, this--this is the most-- the most terrible punishment--" She closed her eyes with her fingers as though to shut out some monstrous vision. "What," asked the amazed young man, "has my name to do with----" Her hands dropped from her eyes; with horror she surveyed him, his paste- spattered overalls, his dingy white cap, his dinner pail. "I--I _won't_ marry you!" she stammered in white desperation. "I _won't!_ If you're not a paper hanger you look like one! I don't care whether you're a Harvard man or not--whether you're playing at paper hanging or not--whether your name is George or not--I won't marry you--I won't! I _won't!_" With the feeling that his senses were rapidly evaporating the young man sat down dizzily, and passed a paste-spattered but well-shaped hand across his eyes. Sybilla set her lips and looked at him.