"Ah, that explains the oversight. I am considered an unusually
discriminating person. Let me see: I married a Miss Fowler, didn't I?"

"Yes, Roxbury. Four years ago, in London, at St. George's, in Hanover
Square, at four o'clock, on a Saturday. Didn't they tell you all that?"

"I don't think they said anything about it being four o'clock. I'm glad
to know the awful details, believe me. Thanks! Do you know I decided you
were an American the instant I saw you in the door," he went on, quite
irrelevantly.

"How clever of you, Roxbury!"

"Oh, I say, Miss Fowler, I'm not such an ass as I look, really I'm not.
I'm trying to look like--"

"'Sh! If you want me to believe you are not the ass you think you look,
be careful what you say. Remember I am _not_ Miss Fowler to you. I am
Constance--sometimes Connie. Can you remember that,--Roxbury?"

He drew a long breath. "Oh, I say, Connie, I'd much rather be plain
Brock to you."

"Please don't forget that I am doing this for my sister,--not for
myself, by any manner of means," she said stiffly. He flushed painfully,
conscious of the rebuke.

"Please overlook my faults for the time being," he said. "I'll do
better. You see, I've been rather overcome by the sense of my own