She leaned back in the chair a little wearily, and waited for the welcome sound of his key in the latch. She wished he would come quickly, because she did not quite like the way her mind kept reverting to those eager kisses. The memory had the danger of making most other thoughts seem thin and dull; and she wondered how she was going to replace a friendship that had been so full of interest and enjoyment. If she had dared, she would like to have persuaded herself that he cared for her in the real way; and her cheeks glowed, and her heart thumped a little at the thought of all the real way meant. But her practical side told her only too decidedly that this was not the case. Perhaps he was not the sort of man who could care in the real way at all. He was too selfish, and grasping, and ambitious by nature. That he was interesting and a delightful companion as well did not help matters. Men were very often all these things together, but the selfish, ambitious, unscrupulous side usually outweighed all the rest in big questions that affected their whole lives. Then she remembered that many of the girls she knew—quite nice, jolly girls—would have taken the fun that offered, and not bothered about anything beyond the present. Still, that did not affect her own particular case. One had to try and live up to one’s own ideals, not other people’s, and in her inmost heart she knew that she thought but poorly of the girls who run foolish risks for the sake of a little extra pleasure and gratification, just as she thought poorly of the man who amused himself, trifling with a girl’s affections, to pass a little time. Then came the welcome sound of Dudley’s key, and she sat up and turned an eager face to the door to greet him. He came in quietly, and returned the greeting with his usual calm, undemonstrative appreciation; only, he did not look at her, nor ask her any questions about her day. The supper was still waiting for him, and he took a few mouthfuls, in a preoccupied manner, with his face turned away. Hal asked him about the day’s outing, wondering not a little at his manner. He seemed anxious, and somewhat ill at ease, and she observed that he did not eat anything to speak of. At last he got up and came to her side near the fire. “Aren’t you going to sit down?” she asked. “I thought a little fire looked so cosy.” He did not seem to hear her, for instead of replying he coughed nervously, cleared his throat, and said: “I’ve something to tell you, Hal—a piece of news.” She waited, watching him with a puzzled, curious air. Then, without any further preamble, he finished abruptly: “I’m—I’m—engaged to be married.” Hal gave a gasp, and became suddenly taut with amazement and incredulity. “You’re—engaged—to—be—married!” “Yes; you’re not very surprised, are you?” A sudden, awful fear seemed to envelop and clutch at her. “Who to?” she asked, a little hoarsely? “To Doris Hayward.”