"Women like men to be awful fools about them," she said. "That's why I'm so crazy about Freddie." He writhed. "If I tell you something nice, Jack, will you make it a room-size rug?" "Room size it is." "Then--Margery's engagement ring was stolen last night and when I commiserated her she said--dear me, the lamp's out and the coffee is cold!" "Remarkable speech, under the circumstances," said Fred. Edith rang the bell and seemed to be thinking. "Perhaps we'd better make it four small rugs instead of one large one," she said. "Not a rug until you have told me what Margery said," firmly. "Oh, that! Why, she said it really didn't matter about the ring. She had never cared much about it anyway." "But that's only a matter of taste," I protested, somewhat disappointed. But Edith got up and patted me on the top of my head. "Silly," she said. "If the right man came along and gave her a rubber teething ring, she'd be crazy about it for his sake." "Edith!" Fred said, shocked. But Edith had gone. She took me up-stairs before I left for the office to measure for the Shirvan, Edith being a person who believes in obtaining a thing while the desire for it is in its first bloom. Across the hall Fred was talking to Margery through the transom. "Mustard leaves are mighty helpful," he was saying. "I always take 'em on shipboard. And cheer up: land's in sight." I would have given much for Fred's ease of manner when, a few minutes later, Edith having decided on four Shirvans and a hall runner, she took me to the door of Margery's room. She was lying very still and pale in the center of the white bed, and she tried bravely to smile at us. "I hope you are better," I said. "Don't let Edith convince you that my coffee has poisoned you." She said she was a little better, and that she didn't know she had had any coffee. That was the extent of the conversation. I, who have a local reputation of a sort before a jury, I could not think of another word to say. I stood there for a minute uneasily, with Edith poking me with her finger to go inside the door and speak and act like an intelligent human being. But I only muttered something about a busy day before me and fled. It was a singular thing, but as I stood in the doorway, I had a vivid mental picture of Edith's description of me, sitting up puppy-like to beg for a kind word, and wiggling with delight when I got it. If I slunk into my office that morning like a dog scourged to his kennel, Edith was responsible. At the office I found a note from Miss Letitia, and after a glance at it I looked for the first train, in my railroad schedule. The note was brief; unlike the similar epistle I had received from Miss Jane the day she disappeared, this one was very formal. "MR. JOHN KNOX: