really feel sorry for you. But, frankly, I think the
joke is decidedly on me."

Garrison was silent, staring with hard eyes at the ground. He could not
begin to analyze his thoughts.

"You are not complimentary, at all events," he said quietly at length.

"So every one tells me," she sighed.

"I did not know of this arrangement," he added, looking up, a queer
smile twisting his lips.

"And now you are lonesomely miserable, like I am," she rejoined,
crossing a restless leg. "No doubt you left your ideal in New York.
Perhaps you are married already. Are you?" she cried eagerly, seizing
his arm.

"No such good luck--for you," he added, under his breath.

"I thought so," she sighed resignedly. "Of course no one would have you.
It's hopeless."

"It's not," he argued sharply, his pride, anger in revolt. He, who had
no right to any claim. "We're not compelled to marry each other. It's a
free country. It is ridiculous, preposterous."

"Oh, don't get so fussy!" she interrupted petulantly. "Don't you think
I've tried to kick over the traces? And I've had more time to think of
it than you--all my life. It is a family institution. Your uncle pledged
his nephew, if he should have one, and my parents pledged me. We are
hostages to their friendship. They wished to show how much they cared
for one another by making us supremely miserable for life. Of course,
I spent my life in arranging how you should look, if you ever came
home--which I devoutly hoped you wouldn't. It wouldn't be so difficult,
you see, if you happened to match my ideals. Then it would be a real
love-feast, with parents' blessings and property thrown in to boot."

"And then I turned up--a little, under-sized, nothingless pea, instead
of the regular patented, double-action, stalwart Adonis of your
imagination," added Garrison dryly.

"How well you describe yourself!" said the girl admiringly.

"It must be horrible!" he condoled half-cynically.

"And of course you, too, were horribly disappointed?" she added, after a
moment's pause, tapping her oxford with tennis-racket.

Garrison turned and deliberately looked into her gray eyes.

"Yes; I am--horribly," he lied calmly. "My ideal is the dark, quiet girl
of the clinging type."

"She wouldn't have much to cling to," sniffed the girl. "We'll be
miserable together, then. Do you know, I almost hate you! I think I do.
I'm quite sure I do."

Garrison eyed her in silence, the smile on his lips. She returned