"Oh, please don't do that!" she begged, and he saw real supplication
in her eyes. "I wouldn't give you the letter for the world, and
I--I--well, don't you see that I am embarrassed?"

"Give me the letter," he commanded, Sternly.

"Do you wish me to hate you?" she blazed.

"'Heaven forbid!"

"Then forget that your name is on this--this detestable envelope,"
she cried, tearing the missive into pieces. He looked on in wonder,
chagrin, disappointment.

"By George, Dorothy, that's downright cruel. It was intended for
me--"

"You should thank me. I have only saved you the trouble of
destroying it," she said, smiling.

"I would have kept it forever," he said, fervently.

"Here's a small bit of the envelope which you may keep as a
souvenir. See, it has your name--'Philip'--on it. You shall have that
much of the letter." He took it rather gracelessly and, deliberately
opening his watch, placed it inside the case. "I'd give $10,000 to
know what that letter had to say to me."

"You can never know," she said, defiantly, from the bottom of the
steps, "for I have forgotten the contents myself."