Sort of jolts him, that does. "Eh?" says he. "A discard? No, no! I--er--I suppose, if I must confess, Torchy, that I am one of hers." "Gwan!" says I. "You? Look like a discard, don't you? Tush, tush!" The idea of him tryin' to feed that to me! Why, say, I expect there ain't half a dozen bachelors in town that's rated any higher on the eligible list than Mr. Bob Ellins. It's no dark secret, either. I've heard of whole summer campaigns bein' planned just to land Mr. Robert, of house parties made up special to give some fair young queen a chance at him, and of one enterprisin' young widow that chased him up for two seasons before she quit. How he's been able to dodge the net so long has puzzled more than me, and up to date I'd never had a hint that there was such a thing for him as a certain party. So I expect I was gawpin' some curious at the picture. "Huh!" says I, but more or less to myself. "Not intending any adverse criticism of the young lady, I trust?" remarks Mr. Robert. "Far be it from me!" says I. "Only--well, maybe the paintin' don't do her justice." "Rather discreetly phrased, that," says he, chucklin' quiet. "Thank you, Torchy. And you are quite right. No mere painter ever could do her full justice. While the likeness is excellent, the flesh tones much as I remember them, yet I fancy a great deal has escaped the brush,--the queer, quirky little smile, for instance, that used to come at times in the mouth corners, a quick tilting of the chin as she talked, and that trick of widening the eyes as she looked at you. China blue, I think her eyes would be called; rather unusual eyes, in fact." He seems to be enjoyin' the monologue; so I don't break in, but just stands there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic. Even after he's finished he still sits there starin'. "Gee!" says I. "It ain't a hopeless case, is it, Mr. Robert?" Which brings him out of his spell. He shrugs his shoulders, indulges in an unconvincin' little laugh, snaps the case shut, and then tosses it careless down onto the table. "Perhaps you failed to notice the dust," says he. "The back part of the bottom drawer is where that belongs, Torchy--or in the waste basket. It's quite hopeless, you see." "Huh!" says I as I turns to go. And this time I meant to get it across to him. Honest, I couldn't figure why a headliner like Mr. Robert, with all his good bank ratin', good fam'ly, and good looks to back him, should get the gate on any kind of a matrimonial proposition, unless it was a case of coppin' a Princess of royal blood, and even then I'd back him to show in the runnin'. Who was this finicky party with the willow-ware eyes, anyway? Queen of what? Or was it wings she was demandin'? [Illustration: "He seems to be enjoying the monologue; so I just stands there while he gazes at the picture and holds forth enthusiastic."]