"Laugh as much as you like," said she; "it's true, for all that. You see, I'd refused several before that. It's rather important for me to marry well--my father's not rich, and--" "I see. Well?" "Well, I wasn't going to. And when it came to this luncheon man I told you about there was a scene, and my father said was there any one else, and I said no; but he went on so frightfully and wouldn't believe me. So at last I told him." "Told him what?" "That there was some one." "Yes?" His voice was only more gentle for the sudden sharp stab of disappointment which told him what hope it was that he had nursed. "And then, of course, I wouldn't say who it was. And he sent for my aunts. Aunt Enid's worse than Aunt Loo. And they bothered and bothered. And at last I said it was the piano-tuner. I don't know how I could have. Father turned him off, of course, poor wretch, and they brought me down here to come to my senses. Aunt Loo never saw the miserable piano-tuner, and she thinks you're him. So now you know. And that's why they're taking me away from here. They think the piano-tuner is pursuing me. I believe Aunt Loo thinks you trained the dog to bark at horses so as to get a chance to speak to me." "Do you care much for your father?" he asked, "or for any of them?" "It's a horrid thing to say," she answered, "but I don't. The only one I care for's Aunt Alice--she's an invalid and a darling. Father thinks about nothing but bridge and races, and Aunt Loo's all golf and horses, and Aunt Enid's a social reformer. I hate them all. And I've never been anywhere or seen anything. I'm not allowed to write to any one. And they don't have any one here at all, and I'm not to see a single soul till I've come to my senses, as they call it. And that's why I was so glad to talk to you yesterday." "I see," he said, very kindly. "Now what can I do for you? Where's the other man? Can't I post a letter to him or something? Why doesn't he come and rescue you?" "What other man?" she asked. "The man you're fond of. The man whose name you wouldn't tell them." "Oh," she said, lightly, and just as though it didn't matter. "There isn't any other man." "There isn't?" he echoed, joyously. "No, of course not. I just made him up--and then I called him the piano-tuner." "Then," he said, "forgive me for asking, but I must be quite sure--you don't care for any man at all?" "Of course I don't," she answered, resentfully, "I shouldn't go about caring about any one who didn't care for me--and if any one cared for me and I cared for him, of course we should run away with each other at once." "I see," said Mr. Basingstoke, slowly and distinctly. "Then if there isn't any one else I suggest that you run away with me." It was fully half a minute before she spoke. Then she said: "I don't blame you. I deserve it for asking you to meet me and coming out like this. But I thought you were different." "Deserve what?" "To be insulted and humiliated. To be made a jest of."