fair attempt to learn theirs, Lorry could only mumble his
acknowledgments. In all his life he had never lost command of
himself as at this moment. Guggenslocker! He could feel the
dank sweat of disappointment starting on his brow. A butcher,--a
beer maker,--a cobbler,--a gardener,--all synonyms of
Guggenslocker. A sausage manufacturer's niece--Miss
Guggenslocker! He tried to glance unconcernedly at her as he
took up his napkin, but his eyes wavered helplessly. She was
looking serenely at him, yet he fancied he saw a shadow of
mockery in her blue eyes.

"If you were a novel writer, Mr. Lorry, what manner of heroine
would you choose?" she asked, with a smile so tantalizing that he
understood instinctively why she was reviving a topic once
abandoned. His confusion was increased. Her uncle and aunt were
regarding him calmly,--expectantly, he imagined.

"I--I have no ambition to be a novel writer," he said, "so I have
not made a study of heroines."

"But you would have an ideal," she persisted.

"I'm sure I--I don't--that is, she would not necessarily be a
heroine. Unless, of course, it would require heroism to pose as
an ideal for such a prosaic fellow as I."

"To begin with, you would call her Clarabel Montrose or something
equally as impossible. You know the name of a heroine in a novel
must be euphonious. That is an exacting rule. "It was an open
taunt, and he could see that she was enjoying his discomfiture.