"You know," she continued, her great eyes half-closed, "I was awfully
anxious to see you when I heard you were coming home----"

"Why?"

She turned and faced him, her grey eyes opened wide. "Why? Isn't one
always interested in one's future husband?"

It was Garrison who was confused. Something caught at his throat. He
stammered, but words would not come. He laughed nervously.

"Didn't you know we were engaged?" asked the girl, with childlike
simplicity and astonishment. "Oh, yes. How superb!"

"Engaged? Why--why----"

"Of course. Before we were born. Your uncle and aunt and my parents had
it all framed up. I thought you knew. A cut-and-dried affair. Are you
not just wild with delight?"

"But--but," expostulated Garrison, his face white, "supposing the real
me--I mean, supposing I had not come home? Supposing I had been dead?"

"Why, then," she replied calmly, "then, I suppose, I would have a chance
of marrying some one I really loved. But what is the use of supposing?
Here you are, turned up at the last minute, like a bad penny, and here I
am, very much alive. Ergo, our relatives' wishes respectfully fulfilled,
and--connubial misery _ad libitum_. _Mes condolences_. If you feel half
as bad as I do, I really feel sorry for you. But, frankly, I think the