“I know. You swore there was no man in this. Then on top of it, you rouse my darkest suspicions by acting like a school-girl yesterday and tearing your hair because the first casual man that comes along doesn’t gaze soulfully at you when he takes his departure.” “Gloria, I hate you! D’ you mean Mr. Remsen? Surely you don’t for a minute imagine—” “No; I don’t suppose Jack has anything to do with it, personally. But I seem to get a strong indication of Man as a species somewhere in the background of this business.” Pink grew Miss Darcy Cole; then red, and eventually scarlet, under Gloria’s interested regard. “You see!” exclaimed that acute person. “Come, now. Explain.” “It’s—it’s Maud Raines’s fault,” blurted Darcy. “Agreed that it’s all Maud’s fault. Go on.” “No; it isn’t _all_ Maud’s fault,” corrected Darcy with a palpable effort to do exact justice. “It’s partly the British War Office’s fault.” “International complications. Maud and the British War Office. Mr. Lee had better look out!” “Not at all! It isn’t Maud that the British War Office has been writing letters to.” “No? Who is it?” “Me.” “Is this a long-distance flirtation with an official Britisher, all wound round with red tape? What kind of fetters?” “Well, not personal, exactly,” reluctantly admitted the girl. “Propaganda matter. It’s sent out by their press bureau. But it always comes addressed in nice, firm, man-ny handwriting.” “But why do they send to you?” Darcy giggled. “That’s the funny part of it. They must have got me confused with Dorsey Coles, the essayist. He used to live on East Fifty-Sixth Street.” “Very likely. When does the Man enter?” “We-ell, you see, Maud and Helen were awfully curious about my English correspondent.” “Naturally.” “So I—well, I just let ’em be.” “Is that any reason why you should wear the expression of one about to confess to a coldblooded murder?” “Wait. You know I told you Maud had been catty about my sitting to Holcomb Lee.” “Yes.” “This is what I overheard her say to Helen, and I’m not even sure she didn’t mean me to overhear. She said, ‘Darcy’s been sitting to Holcomb. Fancy it! Darcy as a model! I can no more imagine her being a model than I could her being engaged.’ Wasn’t that nasty of her, Gloria!” “It was. And you very properly smothered her with a pillow as she slept and have come here to make your confession,” twinkled Gloria. “Worse,” said Darcy in a small, tremulous voice. “Much worse.” Gloria sat up straight. “No!” she cried hopefully. “Yes. For Helen said, ‘Well, somebody in England seems pretty much interested in her, anyway.’ That’s what put it into my head.” “I wish you’d put it; into mine,” said the other plaintively. “You don’t seem to get any nearer the subject of your romance, which is Man.” “Well—promise not to laugh at me, Gloria!” “I’ll try.” “Just to show ’em both, I got engaged.” “Darcy!”