"If he understands me well enough to give me all the
linen-closets I want," said Aline, "he will be perfectly
satisfactory."

Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back into his corner of
the car, drew his hat brim over his forehead, and fixed spying
eyes upon the very lovely face of the girl he had asked to marry
him.

"His name," he said in fateful tones, "is Charles Cochran!"

It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to his distress, Aline
neither started nor turned pale. Neither, for trying to trick
her, did she turn upon him in reproof and anger. Instead, with
alert eyes, she continued to peer out of the window at the
electric-light advertisements and her beloved Broadway.

"Well?" demanded Griswold; his tone was hoarse and heavy with
meaning.

"Well what?" asked Aline pleasantly.

"How," demanded Griswold, "do you like Charles Cochran for an
architect?"

"How should I know?" asked Aline. "I've not met him yet!"

She had said it! And she had said it without the waver of one of
her lovely eyelashes. No wonder the public already hailed her as