appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon
sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair,
and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and
a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram.

"Who the deuce--?" began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened
the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise.
"Can I call?" he said, aloud. "Well, rather!" He let his book drop
forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The
telegram read merely:

"In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA."

The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has
already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young
man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no
sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with
impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying
feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after
due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was
kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end
of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room.

She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for
indoors--like a girl in a fashion plate. Her head was thrown back in
a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and
she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair
arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless
skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's
conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility