efinite word that
could be construed as binding Miss McCarty. But, on the other hand,
his own actions and expressions, he thought, must have been so capable
of but one interpretation that, as a man of honor, he held himself
morally as well as willingly bound. Of course, she had understood his
attitude; she must have understood. And, likewise, there were events
that made him believe that she, in her discreet way, had let him see
by her actions what she could not convey by her words. For, of course,
in his present position of dependence on his father, nothing could be
said. He understood that. He would not have changed it. Still, there
were unmistakable memories of the preference he had enjoyed. There
had been, in particular, an ill-favored dude, called Ver Plank, who
had always been hanging around with his tandem and his millions, who
had been sacrificed a dozen times by the unmercenary angel to his,
John H. Stover's, profit. That was clear enough, and there had been
many such incidents.

The only thing that disappointed Dink was the polite correctness of
her letters. But then something, he said to himself, must be allowed
for maiden modesty. His own letters were the product of afternoons and
evenings. The herculean difficulty that he experienced in covering
four sheets of paper--even when writing a flowing hand and allowing
half a page for the signature--secretly worried him. It seemed as
though something was lacking in his character or in the strength of
his devotion.

On the day after the final disappearance of the brazen amazon Dink
pounced upon a violet envelope in the well-known handwriting and bore
it to a place of secrecy. It was in answer to four of his own painful
compositions.

He gave three glances before reading, three glances that estimate all
such longed-for epistles. There were five pages, which brought him a
thrill; it was signed "as ever, Josephine," which brought him a doubt;
and it began "Dear Jack," which brought him nothing at all.

Having thus passed from hot to cold, and back to a fluctuating
temperature, he began the letter--first, to read what was written, and
second, to read what might be concealed between the lines:

DEAR JACK: Since your last letter I've been in a perfect whirl of
gayety--dances, coaching parties and what-not. Really, you would say
that I was nothing but a frivolous butterfly of fashion. Next week I
am going to the Ver Planks' with quite a party and we are to co