He shook his head incredulously. “You wouldn’t love any man till you had the right to. Besides, where is there another man who’s so exactly what you want in every way? You know we’re exactly suited to each other, Beatrice. It’s--it’s like predestination. You’d hate to give me up as much as I’d hate to give you up.” Centered though her mind was on whether she could venture to make a confidant of him, she began to wonder at him. True, she had permitted him to speak frankly. True, their intimate acquaintance from childhood made him feel free to exhibit his innermost self without any especial nervousness or reserve. But there still remained something unaccounted for. Where had he got the courage to face her thus aggressively? How came he to be infatuated with himself so far beyond the loftiest soarings of his most self-satisfied mood theretofore? It was not long before her feminine shrewdness pointed her to the cause. “Some woman’s been at him--been trying to get him away from me.” In ordinary circumstances this would have pleased her no better than it would please the next woman. But just then she sincerely hoped her underminer had been successful. “Peter,” said she thoughtfully, “have you been considering giving me up?” Peter looked flustered. But he did not hem and haw; he came straight back at her. “I haven’t liked the way you’ve kept me on the string,” confessed he. “Is there some other girl?” inquired she eagerly. “I’ve seen quite a lot of Allie lately,” admitted Peter, and his manner let her know that he had been giving a large amount of thought to the advantages of making her jealous. “And I’m sure if I’d been to Allie what I’ve been to you she’d not treat me as you have.” Allie! Then it was all right. “_Dear_ Allie” had been working in the interests of her friend. Beatrice sent a loving thought to her. “And you must admit Allie has a lot of good points,” pursued Peter, calculating that his judicial manner would set the jealous flame to spreading and mounting. “She’s much nearer your ideal of what a girl should be than I am,” said Beatrice with discouraging enthusiasm. “She’s fond of the same kind of life that you are. Peter--why don’t you love her?” Peter stared gloomily at the ground, then fell to switching off leaves with his stick. Was Beatrice jealous and taking this method of hiding it? Or was she really indifferent to the danger of losing one of the few first-class catches in America? The fear that the latter might be the case made him so miserable that he could not keep up the pretense about Allie. Beatrice, desperate, hesitated no longer. “But first, Hanky, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to pretend that we are to be married and that it’s to be in--say--in three months. Allie will understand. I’ll explain it all to her.” Peter began to bristle. “Pretend to whom?” said he sourly.