With mischievous unconcern he smiled at the young woman. With equally mischievous unconcern the young woman smiled back at him. "What an extraordinary conversation we've had this morning," she said. As though quite exhausted by the uniqueness of it, she slid a little further down into her seat and turned her cheek against the firm support of the chair-back. "What an extraordinary understanding it has brought us to!" exclaimed the man, scanning her closely. "I don't see anything particularly--understandy about it," denied the young woman wearily. It was then that Donas Guthrie asked his simple question, boring his khaki-colored elbows into his khaki-colored knees. "Little Psychology Teacher," he said very gently, "Little Psychology Teacher, Dr. Andrews says that you've got typhoid fever. He's feared it now for some time, and you know it's against his orders--your being up to-day. So as long as I've proved myself here and now, by your own test, the Man-Whom-You-Were-Looking-For, I suggest that you and I be--married this afternoon--before that itinerant shiny-shouldered preacher out in the corral escapes us altogether--and then we'll send the rest of the party on about their business, and you and Dr. Andrews and Hanlon's Mary and I will camp right down here where we are--and scrap the old typhoid fever to its finish. Will you, Little Psychology Teacher?" Lifting her white hands to her throbbing temples the young woman turned her astonished face jerkily toward him. "What--did--you--say?" she gasped. "I said: 'Will you marry me this afternoon?'" repeated Guthrie. Bruskly she pushed that part of the phrase aside. "What did you really say?" she insisted. "What did Dr. Andrews say?" "Dr. Andrews says that you've got typhoid fever," repeated Guthrie. Inertly she blinked her big brown eyes for an instant. Then suddenly her hands went groping out to the arms of her chair. Her face was horror-stricken. "Why didn't he tell me, himself?" "Because I asked him to let me tell you," said Guthrie quietly. "When did he tell you?" she persisted. "Just before I came up on the piazza," said Guthrie. "How did he tell you?" she demanded. "How did he tell me?" mused Guthrie wretchedly. After all, underneath his occasional whimsicality he was distinctly literal-minded. "How did he tell me? Why I saw them all powwowing together in the corral, and Andrews looked up sort of queer and said: 'Say, Guthrie, that little Psychology friend of yours has got typhoid fever. What in thunder are we going to do?" The strained lines around Esther Davidson's mouth relaxed for a second. "Well, what in thunder am I going to do?" she joked heroically. But the effort at flippancy was evidently quite too much for her. In another instant her head pitched forward against the piazza railing and her voice, when she spoke again, was almost indistinguishable.