“Yes; your face hardened as soon as I uttered the word Don.” “The Don! What am I supposed to know about him? Have not you known him as long as I, and longer?” “Oh, I am not going to ask you who he is, or anything of that kind. I presume he alone knows that.” (Charley’s face grew serene.) “It is something entirely different. Is the Don—I know you will think it idle curiosity, but, indeed, indeed, it is not—is the Don—in love?” “Is the Don in love?” cried Charley, with a sudden peal of laughter. “Is the Don in love? And that is the weighty question that you have made such a pother about! Is the Don in love!” “That sounds more like my question than an answer to it.” “Now, seriously, my —ous —ing, you did not expect me to answer such a question as that?” “No, I _didn’t_!” (A little snappishly.) “Any other man—under the circumstances—” “Yes, I believe I am very different from other men, and it is well; for if every man were of my way of thinking, every girl in the world, save one, would be deserted; and soon there would be but one man left on earth,—such a Kilkenny fight would rage around that one girl!” “I knew you would not answer my question.” (_Not_ snappishly.) “How am I to know anything about it?” “You and he are inseparable—” “And hence he has made a confidant of me, and I am to betray him? No, he has never alluded to any such matter. Upon my word, I know nothing whatever upon the subject.” “Indeed? You are a droll couple, to be sure,” and she looked up, admiringly, at one-half of the couple, “talking together for hours, and never telling one another anything! Well, then, I shall answer the question myself: The Don is in love: there!” “What extraordinary creatures women are, to be sure! You ask a question, are vexed at getting no answer, and then answer it yourself! The Don is in love, then; but with whom?” “That I don’t know; I only suspect. Oh, yes, I more than suspect; in fact, I _know_, but some of the girls don’t agree with me, and I want to know which side you are on.” “On yours, of course—” “No joking; I am in earnest. The question between us girls is this: it is plain to us all that he is in love—” “Then, why on earth—” “Don’t you know that when you wish to find out about one thing the best way is to ask about another?” “That aphorism, I must confess, is entirely new to me.” “Well, it is a household word with women. _Of course_ he is in love; we—all of us girls, I mean—know _that_. But with whom? That is the question which divides us.” “And you wish to put that conundrum to me? Indeed, I know nothing about it.” “Nor suspect?” Charley hesitated. “Honor bright? Oh, don’t be so hateful!” Charley smiled; Alice saw he was weakening. “Oh, _do_ tell me, which of the two?” “Which of the _two_?” repeated Charley, looking puzzled. “Surely, you cannot be in earnest; for of all the men I know, Dory—the D-D-D-Don” [What, Charley, stammering on a mere lingu palatal!] “is the least likely to have two loves.”