"Gallantry," said the poet, "is the vain demonstration of superior effectiveness on the part of the male. It is more complimentary to accept a woman on the same footing." "Do you call bombarding her with silly verses 'accepting her on the same footing'?" snapped Hermione, whose astonishment was giving way to irritation. "Ah..." There came the slightest flicker from Applebo's blinking eyes. "So Hermione has told you that I have been sending her verses? I had an idea, for some reason, that she would keep it to herself." He continued his contemplative observation of the marsh. Hermione gasped and stared. For whom did he take her? "Hermione did not tell anybody," she managed to say. "But you guessed? That is better. I am glad that Hermione did not tattle ... even though she sent back all of my verses." Hermione did not at once reply. She was busily trying to adjust to her mind the idea that this extraordinary individual, who for three months had been sending her impassioned love-poems, did not even know her by sight! "Why did you write verses to Hermione?" she asked. "Because her name rhymed with 'sea' and 'thee' and 'lea' and 'me'?" Applebo turned to regard her with a flicker of interest. "You are rather quick on a rhyme yourself, aren't you?" he observed. "No, I wrote verses to Hermione because I was in love with her." "Indeed...!" "Yes, I fell in love with her at first sight." Hermione leaned forward, clasped her hands in front of her shapely legs, and looked at the poet through narrowed lids. The colour had returned, and her violet eyes were beginning to dance mischievously. Mr. Applebo was not looking at her. Indeed, she had already observed this peculiar disinclination on his part, and it puzzled her. "Are you still in love with Hermione?" she asked. "No; she sent back my verses." "How did you happen to fall in love with her?" "It was last winter. Walking down Fifth Avenue to my club for breakfast, I sometimes overtook her. An acquaintance who joined me one day told me who she was. You were all down south at the time, and Hermione was stopping with your aunt. I fell in love with her walk. _Vera incessu patuit dea_..." He threw her one of his brief glances. "Your walk is rather like hers; a sort of family resemblance." "But less graceful...?" "You are more of a mortal maid." "Which is a way of saying more of a lump!" snapped Hermione. "Do you know which of the others _I_ am?" "That is too easy," said Applebo, sleepily. "You are Cécile, the beauty of the family." "Thank you." "And the flirt ... so it is said." "My reputation is as bad as that?" "Everybody knows you smashed up Huntington Wood. He is one of the few men whom I care to claim as a friend. You have broken up others, too, have you not?" "I wonder you dare to talk to me," said Hermione.