no Miss Blight was known there. I described her hat with the blue
wings, her companion with the Pomeranian, the very hour of her visit,
but my persistence brought only the information that hundreds of the
shop's patronesses wore blue wings and thousands carried Pomeranians.
The sinuous young woman became so cold and biting in her tone that I
was sure that she believed that I had been fascinated by her own charms
and was using a ruse for the pleasure of this brief interview, so I
made a hasty retreat. My only clew to the owner of the blue-winged hat
had failed me, and all that was left to me was to patrol the Avenue day
after day, forever hoping and forever being disappointed.

June came. The five-room flat was still unrented. My daily letter
from Harlansburg breathed devotion and happiness over the approach of a
day as yet unset--unset because I had been rather procrastinating about
arranging leave of absence from the office. Doctor and Mrs. Todd had
wanted a college wedding in the chapel. They had even gone so far as
to suggest appropriate music by the glee club and the seniors as
ushers, but when that proposal was made to me I had found to my
distress that I could not leave New York before the summer vacation had
begun. June brought me, too, the very last good fortune I should have
asked at that moment, an unexpected increase in my salary, and unless I
lowered myself by an act of despicable cunning I could not withhold
news of such good import from the future companion of my joys and
sorrows. So I went uptown one night struggling hard to imagine myself
supremely happy. I knew my duty--it was to be supremely happy. I
should write that night to Gladys Todd and announce my coming on the
29th; to-morrow I should find the flat; the next day I should order new
clothes and look at diamond pins.

I opened Miss Minion's front door with my pass-key, and as I climbed to
my room I seemed to emphasize with my feet the fact that I loved Gladys
Todd and was in an ecstasy of happiness. I slammed my hat down on the
bureau as I vowed again that I loved Gladys Todd. Then I drew back and
stared at my pin-cushion. The usual corpulent letter was not leaning
there; its place had been taken by an emaciated telegram.

"Do not rent flat. Have written explanation." Such was the message to
me that day.

At that moment I loved Gladys Todd, and I did not have to stamp the
floor to prove it. I was sure that I had lost her, and i