'Eh? I suppose you think I am an idiot for---- Well, perhaps you're right.' For a couple of minutes nothing was said, and the melancholy lover, with his chin resting on his chest, ruminated over his unhappy affair. 'Hang it all!' he said at last, hesitatingly, 'when a chap gets leave from the front he's--he's sort of woman-hungry. You don't know what it feels like, after getting away from all that mud and corruption, to hear a girl's voice--one of our own. It goes to the head like bubbly. It's a--a dream come true. There's just the two things in your life--eight or nine months in the trenches; then a fortnight with the company of women again. It's awfully soppy to talk like this'---- 'No, it isn't, Horace. It's the biggest compliment ever paid our women. I only wish we could try to be what you boys picture us. That's what makes me feel like drowning Marian every few days. Horace, I'm proud of you.' She patted his hand which was grasping the arm of the chair, and he blushed a hearty red. 'Elise!' He sat bolt-upright. 'By gad! I never knew it until this minute. _You_ are the woman I ought to marry. You are far too good and clever and all that; but, by Jove! I could do something in the world if I had you to work for. Don't stop me, Elise. I am serious. I should have known all along'---- 'Horace, Horace!' Hardly knowing whether to laugh or to cry, Elise put her hand over his mouth and checked the amorous torrent. 'You're a perfect dear,' she said, 'and I'm ever so grateful'---- 'But'---- 'But you mustn't be silly. This is only the reaction from Marian.' 'It's nothing of the sort,' he blurted, putting aside her hand. 'I--I really do--I love you. You're different from any other girl I ever met.' 'My dear, you mustn't say such things. You know you don't love me as you will the right girl when you meet her.' He got out of the chair by getting over its arm. 'I beg your pardon, Elise,' he said, not without a certain shy dignity. 'I meant every word I said--but I suppose there's some one else.' 'Only a dream-man, Horace.' 'What about that American?' 'What--American?' Her agitation was something she could hardly have explained. 'That author-fellow at Roselawn. He was frightfully keen on you. I remember half-a-dozen times when he would be talking to us, and if you came in he'd go as mum as an oyster, and just follow you with his eyes. Is _he_ the chap, Elise?' 'Good gracious!'--she forced a laugh-- 'why, I don't even know where he is.' 'Don't you? He's in London; I can tell you that much. Last month in France I ran across that Doosenberry-Jewdrop fellow---you know--the futurist artist.' 'Do you mean Johnston Smyth?' 'That's the chap.' 'I didn't know he was in France.' 'Rather. I thought your brother would have told you.' '_My brother?_' There was not a vestige of colour in her cheeks. 'What do you mean?'