like summer mists in sunshine.

"I'm a rank outsider," Warrington grumbled.

"Surely you did not expect to be kissed!" Patty retorted.

"A man never gives up hoping. Well, Benedick," to John, "I suppose
you've a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere."

"That I have!" John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder. "It was good
of you to come down with the folks."

"No trouble at all."

They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting,
large enough to carry them all comfortably. As they crossed over to
the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner. She was
radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy.
Heigh-ho! Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely as though she
had died. He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart. Was he always
to love no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor when one is
young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and
old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by
one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance,
ah! the world becomes a dreary place. The old bachelor is the
loneliest and most pathetic of men.

Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter;
smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant
question, about coming home late o' nights; antenuptial persiflage.
There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it
sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.

"It's up to you, now, Dick," said John. "Think of the good times we
four could have together!"

"And who'd marry an old man like me?" asked Warrington plaintively.

"Bosh!" said John.

"Nonsense!" said Patty.

"You are a young man," said the mother.

"There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it,"
said Miss Challoner.

"Aha! I smell a conspiracy!" laughed Warrington. "You are putting your
heads together to get me off your hands."

The breakfast awaited them at Bennington's hotel. This passed off
smoothly. Then Warrington excused himself. He had a business
engagement down town. It was arranged, however, that they were to be
his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera.
On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment. From
his rooms they would go straight to the parson's, the "Little Church
Around the Corner."

When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sist