get them. And I suppose the Stormy One
_can't_ be rich, whatever else he may be. Perhaps he was _once_, and
lost all his money; for he certainly has the look of a banished prince,
and the long-distance manner of one, if he doesn't like anybody or is
bored. But strong as he may be in many ways, he could not resist Pat
when he was in a motor car with her day after day. Jack and I would have
bet (if that hadn't been callous) as to whether he'd cave in far enough
to propose; and if _I_ had bet I should have lost. But it wouldn't have
been my fault. It would have been Ed Caspian's. Jimmy Payne at his worst
wasn't a patch on him.

How the man managed it I can't conceive (as Pat is of an almost
exaggerated and clamlike loyalty), but she arrived at Kidd's Pines at
the end of that short trip _engaged to Caspian_!

I didn't know till the next day; didn't know that, or the rest. You see,
we finished up with a moonlight run from the gorgeous house I wrote you
a postcard about. We were late, for the Faust-cry in our hearts was
communicated to our speed: "Linger awhile: thou art so fair!" Jack and I
didn't stop at Kidd's Pines at all, though they asked us in to have
night-blooming sandwiches and such things. We went straight on to
Awepesha and slept the sleep of the moderately just. Pat had promised to
'phone in the morning, and did. She merely asked how we were, and said
she was well; but I could tell from her voice that something dreadful
was the matter. I dashed over in the car before Jack was dressed, ready
with an excuse about a book I wished to borrow, and was so early that I
found myself colliding--nay, telescoping--with the breakfast brigade of
the "hotel."

Pat doesn't break her fast with the paying guest, however: she's an
early bird, though her pet aversion is a worm. I sent a message to her
room (the smallest in the house) and was invited to go up. There was a
cloud of cigar smoke in the air, and as Pat doesn't smoke, I deduced a
miraculously matinal call from Larry. That alone was an omen of
catastrophe, for Larry is either up all night or not before 10 A. M. And
Pat's face was worse than an omen. I could see behind her poor little
smile of greeting, right into her mind, as if her head had been a watch
with nothing but glass over the works.

"Good gracious, darling, whatever _is_ it?" I gasped.

"Nothing," said she, "except--except that Tom has toothache, and I'm
sorry for him."

"That boy has got a regular rush