"Oh, I would! You--you--"

"What am I?"

"You dear!"

"'Rah! 'Rah!" cried Rokeby, "shake hands on that!" She laid in his
frankly a short and capable hand. "I'm not a 'him,' am I? Oh, say I'm
not."

"You're not--yet. You're a dear."

"Am now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen."

"Amen," said Julia, twinkling.

"Here are _pêches melba_," said Rokeby, "women always like them.
I'm glad they're on our programme to-night."

"I adore them."

"You might try to remember, before we leave the subject," Rokeby
suggested, "that the prospects of these 'hims' aren't very rosy either
sometimes. You see it comes hard on a man, though doubtless he's a
black-hearted scoundrel to admit it, when he marries and has to
stretch an income, which was perfectly palmy in the bachelor days, to
meet the needs of two, or three, or however many it may ultimately
have to meet. He can't help a yelp now and then. It's a horrid sound,
but it relieves him. The only remedy I can suggest for the existing