“I will tell you the truth. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first. " "And what should a young man like this one have to forget?" Prudence demanded to know.
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