"No, indeed, sir. Other folk's love affairs are enough for me to attend to." Then the child slipped away, while Trif continued to wonder from whom had come the letter which Phil had forwarded, and which appeared to contain a large photograph. Trixy retired to the hotel, opened her letter, and found, as she had expected, a picture of Harry Trewman. There was some writing on the back of the card, and Trixy wished she knew what it was, but all chirography was as undecipherable to her as Hebrew; her own letters were written in imitation of print. She roamed about the corridors in search of some acquaintance whose education was broader than her own, and finally she chanced upon Lieutenant Jermyn, who had been visiting an invalid friend. "Say, Mr. Jermyn, you can read writin', can't you?" "Sometimes, Trixy, sometimes." "Then won't you tell me what's on the back of this picture?" Jermyn read aloud: "My dear little girl, I am very fond of you, and I shall be glad to have you carry my picture on your journey with you, so that I may be brought to your mind once in awhile. Yours sincerely, HARRY TREWMAN." "Oh, I'm so glad he sent it!" exclaimed Trixy. Jermyn smiled and replied: "Upon my word, Miss Trixy, you're beginning quite early to be interested in young men." "You're the second person who's made that mistake," Trixy replied. "The picture isn't for me; it's for Aunt Fee." "Indeed!" Jermyn looked grave a moment or two before he continued, "Wouldn't it be better, then, for you not to show it to people in general?" "Oh, I'm not going to. I only wanted to know what the writin' was about." "Suppose you put it into the envelope," suggested Jermyn, "and take it to your aunt's room." "Just what I was goin' to do," said Trixy. "Isn't it funny that both of us thought of the same thing?" Jermyn admitted that it was, although he was oppressively silent as he walked through the hall--he who had always told Trixy some funny story when he met her. Fenie had learned to like Jermyn greatly during their short acquaintance, but on the evening that followed the picture incident he surpassed himself in deference, humor and brilliancy. Fenie did not wonder that Trif had always remembered him pleasantly. She did wish he was not quite so old; a man of thirty-five seems dreadfully ancient to a girl of twenty. Still, soldiers were splendid anyway. Of course, he did not care particularly for her, for he had never seen her until that week, but there was something in his voice and manner on this particular evening that affected her strangely. Could it be that he was falling in love with her? If so, she--she really ought to feel sorry.