That young person put her pencil down so gently that the restraint she used was noticeable. The light in her eye made me quiver. “Grace,” said I, and came to a sudden stop. Yes, sitting down was decidedly better. It didn’t seem so formal, and your legs didn’t feel so wobbly. I sat down accordingly. “Grace,” said I once more; and then my throat went wrong, and I had to pause and cough. “Yes,” said Grace meekly, “I s’pose my name’s Grace. Go on, Dimmy; it’s ever so interesting. But if it’s a joke, Dimmy, it’s not at all obvious. Just read those Bristol figures out, there’s a good chap.” I picked up the telegram again, and called out solemnly,-- “R. C. Dimsdale, bowled Grace, none.” Miss Grace’s steady gaze went through me, then came back and went through me again. “Look here, Dimmy,” she said, with a deliberation that was both incisive and well weighed, “I’m not going to be ragged like this by you or anybody else. Give me that wire, and now you just cut. When I _want_ to be bored, I read _Punch_.” It was evident by the rigidity of her countenance that she saw not the remotest connection between what I had said and the terribly great matter that was overbalancing my mind. “I must explain,” said I doggedly. “I don’t think you will,” said she gravely; “that thing with a handle to it, Dimmy, is called a door. If you open it, you will see the way out the other side.” “Thanks so much,” said I; “but then, you see, I’m not going. I’ve got so much to say, Grace, that really----” “My dear Dimmy,” she interrupted, “if you would only tell me where it hurts you, I might give you a pick-me-up or something to set you straight.” “It is in your power,” said I. “That’s all right,” said Grace cheerfully; “now let’s have it. If it’s a cold, it’s compo; if it’s sleeplessness, it’s potassium bromide; if it’s nerves, it’s rest; if it’s a strain, it’s Elliman.” “It’s a strain,” said I. “Good old strain!” said Grace. “Thought it must be a strain.” “Of the heart!” said I. “Next, please,” said Grace. “Whoever heard of a chap straining his heart? Why, Charlie, who lams ’em down like anything, has never strained his heart.” “He has not my delicate organization, you see,” said I. “He’s as strong as a bullock, and just about as susceptible. I, my dear Grace, am much more delicately constituted. In fact, my dear Grace, in fact----” Emotion drowned, however, what was to have been a nicely rounded period. Miss Grace sighed, set down her pencil for the second time, propped her chin on her hands, and said with almost tearful resignation, “What _are_ you saying, Dimmy?” I rose to my feet, for, after all, that was the better way, as in a sitting posture one was unable to obtain the fierce energy that this miserable business undoubtedly demanded. Therefore, springing to my feet, I said,-- “I mean just this, Grace. You’ve gone and bowled me neck and heels.” “Why, you said just now,” said she, “that you had strained your heart.”