"Not Grieg," he protested feebly. "Beethoven."

"You're not going to do either," I said with firmness. "You are
going right home to unpack those new draperies that Harry Bayles
sent you from Shanghai, and you are going to order dinner for
eight--that will be two tables of bridge. And you are not going
to touch the pianola."

He did not seem enthusiastic, but he rose and picked up his hat,
and stood looking down at me where I sat on an old horse-hair
covered sofa.

"I wish to thunder I had married you!" he said savagely. "You're
the finest girl I know, Kit, WITHOUT EXCEPTION, and you are going
to throw yourself away on Jack Manning, or Max, or some other--"

"Nothing of the sort," I said coldly, "and the fact that you
didn't marry me does not give you the privilege of abusing my
friends. Anyhow, I don't like you when you speak like that."

Jim took me to the door and stopped there to sigh.

"I haven't been well," he said heavily. "Don't eat, don't sleep.
Wouldn't you think I'd lose flesh? Kit"--he lowered his voice
solemnly--"I have gained two pounds!"

I said he didn't look it, which appeared to comfort him somewhat,
and, because we were old friends, I asked him where Bella was. He
said he thought she was in Europe, and that he had heard she was
going to marry Reggie Wolfe. Then he signed again, muttered